


Time Slips

by mezzo_cammin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Background Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, Established Relationship, M/M, Protective Greg Lestrade, Protective Mycroft Holmes, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 20:37:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17453885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mezzo_cammin/pseuds/mezzo_cammin
Summary: This fic is my response to the question,"What would Mycroft Holmes do to rescue Greg Lestrade from the very determined arms of Death?"The answer's obvious, isn't it? He'd do anything. Anything at all.Hence, this is a time-loop fic in which Mycroft is jet-lagged, Eurus is creepy, Greg is quite wonderful until he dies (repeatedly, but also temporarily), Anthea is confused but supportive, the Prime Minister is kind, Sherlock and John are helpful (sort of), it rains an awful lot, Mycroft’s coat is very clean, and tomorrow is a new day.Until it isn’t.





	Time Slips

Day 1, Part 1

 _“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly; …_  
_“O no, no,” said the little fly, “to ask me is in vain,_  
_For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.” – Mary Howitt_

Eurus waits.

She is a spider, but not an ordinary garden spider, venomous, weaving traditional lacy webs. Oh, no. She is not content to wait, powerless, to leave to chance her unsuspecting prey becoming entangled in the web’s sticky, silken strands. The alliteration pleases her. She repeats it under her breath three times. Sticky silken strands, sticky silken strands, sticky silken strands. Power of three. Nature and science proven, the inherent and unpredictable power of three. Power _in_ three.

No. Eurus is an ogre-faced spider. Her arms are long and spindly. Two of her eyes are large, all-seeing, and the other six are hidden, yet they see. They see everything. She weaves her web and holds it, waiting, waiting, waiting, then flings the web (and herself) at her prey, capturing it, killing it, consuming it. Bit more hands-on, that way. The way she prefers life.

Yes. She likes that analogy.

She visited today, yesterday, and what she found was unexpectedly perfect. A bargaining chip. The last, most necessary, strand in the web she weaves.

She waits.

She waits.

She waits. The web lies in her bloodied fingers, ready to cast.

He’s late. Time slips past. If he isn’t here soon, it will have happened already. He has to be here before it happens, so she can tell him it _will_ happen. It is the only way this will work. It is the only way he will believe her.

The clock in her mind ticks and ticks, and she waits and waits. She begins to rock back and forth like a metronome atop a piano, keeping time. Web weaver. Time keeper. Her mind searches for the missing identifier. She needs three, after all. Threethreethree. Power of three. Time keeper, web weaver, what else, what else, what else? What-? Ah. Promise maker. Yes. Of course.

Time keeper. Web weaver. Promise maker. Power of three.

Where _is_ he? Where? Where is he, whereis he, whereishe, whereishewhereishewhereishewhereis-

The buzzer sounds, and she stops breathing. Her mind quiets, until only the ticking of the mind-clock remains. She steps back from the glass divider (tempered, reinforced, state-of-the-art technology) and stands, innocently, passively, quietly. Yes, good. She is being good.

She breathes.

He strides into the outer chamber, and her spider eyes consume him. She notices everything, everything he is letting her see, and everything he is trying to hide from her. He is getting better at hiding what matters, and also worse, because she can see it all, and the weight he gives to what he hides is important. She catalogs, compares, contrasts it with what he lets her see, and another strand is woven into the web.

He, in turn, observes her. His eyes narrow as he looks at her hands, the streaks of blood she has failed to conceal, but he does not leap to conclusions. His expression remains placid, unthreatening. He is not easy prey. He won’t let his guard down, unlike Sherlock, who is warm and forgiving and plays with her, reaches out to her, trying to connect. Easy prey.

But he is reserved. Protective. Suspicious. And yet, she sees that he yearns for the connection even more so than Sherlock. He believes that with that connection comes absolution. He is wrong. He is also, sadly, impenetrable. She cannot fool him. He won’t be manipulated.

And yet.

She has something he wants. Or rather, something he _will_ want. Very soon.

His mouth lifts gently at the corners. It’s not a smile, merely an acknowledgment that she is there, and he is seeing her.

“Hello, Eurus,” Mycroft says. She hears the caged lion roaring beneath the deceptive mildness of his tone. It is terrifying. “I understand you wished to see me?”

She smiles at him. It’s as genuine a smile as she can conjure for him, dredged up from her memories of the child who used to smile at her brothers. Before. She notices the shudder of disquiet her smile causes him. Catalogs it. Another silky strand.

“Yes, I asked for you.” She counts off the seconds. There is still time.

Mycroft raises a brow. She knows that he will not ask why she has summoned him. He’s a busy man, important. He has circled the globe twice in the last few days, and that matters, it matters, it is perfect that he has done that. A tenth of a second. That’s all she will need, if her calculations can be trusted, and they must. But Mycroft is busy, and important, and she is wasting his time. And yet, he will stand there, and he won’t ask why she needs to see him so urgently. He will raise his eyebrow and he will wait, and as he does so, she senses an alien emotion sneak past her defenses. After some analysis, she recognises the emotion as fondness. How interesting.

Eurus leans forward. Mycroft does not react. He is well trained.

“I know something you don’t know,” she sing-songs, in the child’s voice.

Mycroft raises his other brow.

“And what might that be?” He asks her, as if he is merely indulging the whim of an innocent child. His eyes, though, his eyes tell a different story, focused and calculating, missing nothing.

She turns away from him. She takes three steps, carefully avoiding the minute crack in the stone floor, and picks the note up. She places it tenderly on the carrier. Of course, they won’t give her anything to write with. No pens or pencils or chalk or crayons, nothing which she can weaponise. She’d had to pull back the cuticles on her fingernails until the blood flowed, until she could painstakingly write the letters and numbers on a torn off strip of her tunic. It’s strange they don’t understand that she could weaponise that, too, if she wanted. If they were truly smart, truly fearful, she would not be allowed clothing, her hair would be shorn. As it is, she is given no paper to burn or slice into her skin, so she makes do.

Still. It is not simply a note. Oh, no. This is her web, and she flings it at him. If she were truly an ogre-faced spider, she would fling her body as well, but she cannot. She is confined.

For now.

The little trap door closes, whirs, and after a moment the note is brought into the outer chamber by an armed guard and passed to Mycroft. He reads it. She sees that he understands what she has done, how she has written with her own blood, made the effort, the sacrifice for him. His face goes pale, then flushes, the very reaction she had hoped for. He looks at his watch, then at her.

“Sweet Christ in heaven, Eurus,” he says, in a voice that is terrible and calm and powerful, “What have you _done_?”

A thrill, an actual thrill of nerves, shivers down her spine, the fluttering of a sticky, silken strand. In that instant, she knows, she knows, she _knows_ that Mycroft is caught in her web.

She has won.

It’s simply a matter of time.

Day 2, Part 1

 _In 1905, Albert Einstein determined that the laws of physics are the same for all non-accelerating observers, and that the speed of light in a vacuum was independent of the motion of all observers. This was the theory of special relativity. It introduced a new framework for all of physics and proposed new concepts of space and time._ <https://www.space.com/17661-theory-general-relativity.html>

The mobile phone chimes insistently, vibrations scooting it across the surface of the night stand in tiny increments.

Mycroft Holmes, buried beneath layers of bed covers and days of jet lag, barely registers the sound on the periphery of his consciousness. He breathes deeply, filling his nose with the familiar beeswax and vanilla muskiness of home. A faint trace of wood smoke lingers in the air. The warm body he is cocooned against shifts and begins to stretch. The chiming sound ends, finally, and Greg’s sleep-roughened voice says, “What.” It is not an inquiry.

Mycroft burrows back down into the warmth of their bed as the low murmur of one-sided conversation lulls him back to sleep.

Time slips past.

“Mycroft? I have to leave soon.” Greg’s hand is on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Mycroft murmurs a half-hearted protest. They’ve worked out a system for this, the two of them. If Mycroft is called in to handle one crisis or another, he tries not to disturb Greg’s sleep, simply leaves a note taped to his cell phone. Greg, however, must always, always wake Mycroft up to tell him if he’s leaving. Always, without fail, no matter how sleep deprived or jet lagged Mycroft is. Neither of them relishes a repeat of the Bethesda incident.

Fresh-brewed Brazilian coffee adds to the scent of home he now associates with Greg and early-morning departures. The muted clink of the cup and saucer as they’re placed on the bedside table sends a wave of fondness flowing over Mycroft like melted caramel. Compromises. Living together has created a series of them, some a bit more difficult to navigate than others, but this one had proven easy enough. Greg doesn’t set a hot, possibly dripping cup of coffee directly on the Queen Anne bedside table, and Mycroft stops trying to put Greg’s gray flannel bathrobe in the charity box.

Greg’s hand cups Mycroft’s jaw, thumb tracing gently over his cheekbone. He turns his face into the warmth, the wisps of an unsettling dream curling away like spider webs in the heat of the sun.

“Time ‘s it?” The words slur, barely making it past lips too dry to move. He must’ve been snoring again. Charming.

“Early.” Callused fingers press lightly at his temple, rubbing small circles on the tender skin beneath them. “Much too early. And I had such plans for you this morning, too.”

Breath leaves his body in a sigh as the dull pain at the top of his head eases. His eyelids quiver but remain closed, inertia winning the battle against momentum for the time being.

“Here.” The rim of the cup is held lightly against his parched lips. He takes a sip, relishing the wetness, if not the taste. Brazilian has never been his favorite. A fuzzy recollection from the night before fights its way to the surface of his muddled thoughts.

“Mm. I am quite disappointed to find my toes sadly flat.”

He is rewarded for this witticism with Greg’s bark of laughter.

“Falling down on the job, am I?” Greg’s thumb lingers over Mycroft’s mouth, pushes in just a bit. He suckles it gently before releasing it with a tender kiss.

“I believe certain promises were made,” he replies, raising his chin and settling his head more firmly into the pillow.

Greg’s fingers trail down his neck, out over his collarbones, hand settling warm and strong on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“C’mere, then, your haughtyness. Can’t snog you senseless all the way over there, can I?”

The mattress shifts beneath Greg’s weight, and Mycroft is gathered into his arms.

“I believe the term agreed upon was ‘toe-curling,’” he replies, solely for the sake of accuracy and not at all because he knows that particular tone has a pronounced effect on Greg’s libido. He would never do that.

Greg nips at his earlobe, his breath a moist heat sending shivers down Mycroft’s spine as he whispers, “Yeah, all right. Hush, now, and give me your mouth.”

But rather than waiting for Mycroft to offer up his mouth, willing as he is to do so, Greg leans down and takes it. He nips at Mycroft’s lower lip until he gasps, then sweeps in with his tongue, lush and full, coffee flavored. Greg moans, a needy sound that reaches out to every base instinct Mycroft has to fulfill that need, to give him what he wants. He reaches up, fingers sliding through Greg’s hair, bringing him even closer. Greg softens the kiss, presses his forehead against Mycroft’s and shares his breath. He smooths one hand down the length of Mycroft’s back until it rests in the cleave of his ass, fingertips just brushing against his balls. Squirming as close to Greg as he can get, his naked skin encounters Greg’s work clothes, the folds of his rain slicker. The only skin available to him is Greg’s face and neck, so he wrenches his mouth away and licks and sucks on Greg’s throat.

Greg’s phone chimes loudly with a series of text messages, one after the other, as is Dimmock’s habit. Short, succinct messages rather than one long one. He’s learned it gets Greg’s attention better that way.

Mycroft sighs and eases back, placing one last, lingering kiss on the underside of Greg’s jaw.

 “Bloody buggering fuck,” Greg says, groaning, arms tightening around Mycroft once, before releasing him and drawing back.

“Agreed.” Mycroft slowly relaxes his taut muscles, uncurls his toes and allows his weight to sink back into the pillows. Not much to be done about his erection at the moment, it would seem. He hasn’t the energy to lift his little finger, let alone his prick, and Greg has to leave. Ah, well. He opens his eyes at last, but the room is very dark, no moonlight available to cast Greg in its pale shadows. He knows Greg is still there by his scent and the sound of his breathing. Even squinting, he is only able to make out a vague outline of shoulders, a suggestion of silver to indicate where his head is.

“So…promise kept, then?” Greg inquires, smug as everything.

“I would have to say your mission was satisfactorily completed. In that regard.”

“Yeah, about that,” Greg says, hand reaching unerringly for Mycroft’s cock beneath the covers. He slides one finger from root to leaking tip, gathers a bit of fluid from the slit, says, “The earlier you get home tonight, the sooner I can take care of that for you.” Mycroft doesn’t need the moonlight to know what the wet, sucking sound is. Greg’s hum of approval nearly does him in.

“Is that so?”

“Mmhm.” Mycroft’s pupils have dilated enough that the gleam of Greg’s teeth as he grins is visible.

“Then I shall keep the meeting with the Prime Minister to the barest minimum. No tea. Certainly no idle chit-chat…”

“You scoundrel, you.”

“You’ve reduced me to such, it seems.”

Greg leans in for one last, laughing kiss before standing and collecting his cup and saucer.

“Oh, almost forgot,” he says, pausing with the cup halfway to his mouth. “Got any unarmed umbrellas lying about? Mine’s in the car and it’s bucketing down out there.”

Mycroft can’t stop his snort of laughter from escaping. Will the Bethesda incident haunt them forever? It seems likely.

“Perhaps the navy blue one with the ivory handle? I believe it’s hanging on the hall tree.”

“Right, then. Off I go.”

“Perhaps you’d best call for a car? The roads will be …”

“Shh, now. I’ve managed to drive myself around without assistance for years. Think I can handle a bit of rain.”

Mycroft sighs. “Fine. But should you change your mind…”

“I’ve got the number. No worries. Listen, you’ve got hours left before your alarm goes off. Try and get some sleep, yeah?”

“Mmm.” His eyes drift shut as he turns onto his side, pulling one leg up and stretching an arm out towards Greg’s side of the bed. The air stirs faintly around him; he catches a whispered ‘love you’ as his hand is lifted, a soft kiss brushed across his knuckles, on the ring that Greg placed there less than a month ago.

Sleep claims him before the bedroom door closes.

Hours later, the alarm sounds, jarring him out of dreams that were disjointed, dark, shrouded by cobwebs. A wave of dizziness washes over him as he sits up, smacks a hand at the alarm clock. He stills, closes his eyes and breathes through the lightheadedness. Pain lances his temples with twin javelins of misery. Slowly, cautiously, he slides his legs over the edge of the bed and puts his feet on the floor, scooting a toe out in search of bedroom slippers which are nowhere to be found. He squints at his watch, noting the current date, time zone, location, and ambient temperature. Has he missed a day? It feels like he has. A quick glance about the room shows everything in its place except for a wet flannel tossed haphazardly on top of the clothes basket. Hm.

Jet lag. That’s all it is. Worse than normal, but then it would be. He’s crossed at least five time zones and doubled back on them more than once in the past fortnight. This is just his body rebelling against his cavalier treatment of it.

The muffled sound of the telly coming from the sitting room confuses him for a second, before he realises Anthea must have arrived and is making herself at home, as is her wont. The kettle will be on, hopefully. He’ll shower, shave, dress. The navy pinstripe, he decides, a concession to the weather, with a burgundy and cream striped tie and solid burgundy pocket square. Anthea will have to go over the day’s specifics with him in the car on the way to work.

Business as usual.

But first, where the devil are his clothes? Memories, shadowed impressions from last night filter through his mind. Greg meeting him at the door, eager for him, naked beneath his robe. Mycroft’s tie loosened and draped over the entrance table, his coat and waistcoat removed on the way to the sofa. Logs crackling in the fireplace. A snifter of brandy. Shoes and socks left under the coffee table, feet placed tenderly in Greg’s lap and massaged. Christ. Such a filthy mouth he had, whispering all the things he’d planned to do to Mycroft. His shirt had been left on the sofa, his trousers a few feet from it. Surely his pants were…oh. Greg, pushing him against the bedroom door before falling to his knees, mouthing his erection through the silk material, slowly pulling them down, then off. Greg’s mouth…

“Sir?” A quiet knock on the door accompanies Anthea’s voice. He wonders if Greg had taken the time to gather everything up this morning or if Anthea has followed the trail of clothing to his door.

“One moment,” he says. Ah, well. There’s nothing for it but to don Greg’s flannel robe, which is hanging, as always, on the back of the bedroom door. As he tightens the sash about his middle, Greg’s scent wafts up from it, and he takes a deep breath, pulls the collar up a little higher on his neck. He opens the door and takes the cup and saucer from Anthea. He sniffs appreciatively, enjoying the scent of his ‘wake up’ blend, full and rich and extra caffeinated. Necessary on days like this.

“Thank you, Anthea. I should be ready in half an hour.”

“Yes, sir, of course.” Her tone is polite, nonjudgmental. He pretends not to notice the knowing smile that quirks the corners of her lips, and she pretends not to notice his state of undress. She had not accompanied him on the last leg of his trip, returning to London on Thursday to prepare for the upcoming trade meeting in person. Thank God one of them will have their wits about them today. The foggy, detached feeling of jet lag dulls his thoughts to an unacceptable extent. He detests that.

Precisely twenty-eight minutes later, he emerges from the attached dressing room, suited and shod, empty cup and saucer in hand. Crossing the sitting room on the way to the kitchen, Mycroft takes note of the news program Anthea has on while she busies herself on her tablet. A supposedly prominent psychiatrist is discussing the déjà vu phenomena she claims is currently sweeping the nation. Mycroft frowns. Mass hysteria? Or simply a ratings ploy? He remembers his own feeling upon waking, of having missed a day, and makes a mental note to bring it up at the domestic security briefing this morning. One can never be too careful. Viewers are invited to stay tuned for a satellite look at the freak winter storm headed their way, promising high winds and the possibility of flash floods.

As he places the cup and saucer in the sink, the doorbell chimes. Odd. He detects surprise in Anthea’s voice as she greets whoever is at the door, and he hurries his steps, arriving in the foyer just in time to see the door close behind a courier. Anthea is standing there holding a folded-over parcel with the discreet marking of his dry cleaner upon the plastic covering.

“Your coat, sir,” she says, and he has a vague recollection of making a call last night, asking that his coat be laundered and returned to him by morning. Or did someone else make that call? Greg, perhaps? He cannot for the life of him remember where he’d left it, though. Jet lagged or not, what appears to be a gap in his memory leaves his stomach churning uneasily.

Worrisome, that.

“Thank you,” he says. She has removed the plastic covering and he takes it from her as if it is an everyday occurrence for his coat to be delivered to his front door. Now if he can only find his pocket watch, he’ll be ready for work. He surreptitiously checks the coat pockets as he follows Anthea back into the sitting room. Empty.

Anthea flicks off the telly with the remote and takes a moment to reorganise his briefcase before snapping it shut and twirling the combination locks. Mycroft is in the process of shrugging on his coat when he spots the pile of neatly folded and stacked clothes on the writing desk beside the window. His pocket watch sits atop yesterday’s shirt like an elaborate paper weight. His umbrella is hanging off the back of the desk chair, so he fetches both items and turns to Anthea. She has donned her own trench coat and, briefcase in one hand, mobile in the other, is waiting for him by the door.

He pauses, certain he is forgetting something.

Her mobile goes, and she glances down at it, frowning, before answering it with a crisp, “Stephen? Is everything all right?”

She listens to what turns into a lengthy monologue on Stephen’s part. Stephen. Possibly her brother-in-law, Stephen Whitcomb? He recalls signing a gift card for ‘the happy couple’ a few months ago. Eleanor. Eleanor and Stephen, nuptials held in Galway, where they now live. Anthea had asked for a long weekend to attend the ceremony. Mycroft had insisted she take the entire week. He’s not sure which of them had been more relieved upon her return. Possibly it had been Greg.

Now, Anthea tucks the phone between her ear and shoulder and powers up her tablet.

“Merlin Park University Hospital? What’s the room number?” she asks, making an entry in her personal calendar.

Mycroft steps away to afford her some privacy, taking the opportunity to text Greg.

_Umbrella behaving itself?_

He is smiling at Greg’s reply of _It is, ta very much. Free for lunch?_ when Anthea concludes her call and returns her tablet to her pocketbook with an air of finality.

“Everything all right?” he asks.

She hesitates, then squares her shoulders and nods. “Eleanor took ill yesterday afternoon. She’s just had her appendix removed, recovering nicely. Stephen says the surgeon was a bit too hesitant to proceed. If he’d waited any longer, she could have – well, it would have been much worse.”

Mycroft reaches out, places a comforting hand on her shoulder. He understands better than most how much her sister means to her, how fiercely she’d fought to keep them together after they’d been orphaned at such a young age.

“Once you have more details, do inform me if any action needs to be taken. Our consultants will be at your sister’s service should the need arise, of course, and you will not hesitate to call on them. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” she says, and places her hand over his, squeezing it gently.

He knows her well enough to understand she is quite overcome with emotion at the moment and no further comment from him is necessary. And yet, he finds himself adding, “I believe our schedules will be sufficiently light tomorrow and Wednesday, should you need to arrange a personal visit.”

“I –,” she stops, clears her throat. “We’ll see how it goes, shall we?” And just like that, her calm, professional demeanor is back in its place.

He lifts his umbrella, finger on the release. “Are we all set, then?”

“Yes, sir. And sir?” She pauses, hand on the door.

“Yes?”

“Welcome back.”

***

Traffic is atrocious. One would think Londoners had never seen a cold November rain before, the way they’re slipping and sliding and rear-ending one another. Mycroft’s been in and out of it three times within the past hour, going from one security briefing to the next, all in separate buildings on Whitehall. The warmth in the car is a welcome respite, however brief, as they make their way to the Cabinet Office.

He gives serious thought to the feasibility, from economic and security angles, of underground tunnels connecting the government offices. While their driver maneuvers around a stalled vehicle, he pulls up the Powerpoint program on his phone. He is on his third set of nested bullet points before Anthea snorts in a very unladylike manner, interrupting his train of thought. He imagines she thinks it whimsy on his part. As they exit the car and dash through the torrential rain, he has never felt less whimsical.

The meeting with the Canadian delegation commences a full forty-five minutes later than scheduled, due to a combination of staffing issues and weather-related fiascos. Normally, Mycroft’s presence would not be needed at such a preliminary meeting, but a snarl in trade negotiations requires his particular skill set to untangle it, according to the newly appointed Minister of Trade. The Canadian state visit is scheduled for the following week, so time is of the essence.

Diplomacy at work. Hurry up and wait. Mycroft sips his usual mid-morning iced pomegranate juice and does his best to commit to memory the faces and idiosyncrasies of each member of the Canadian team. One never knows when that information will come in handy, what leverage might be gained from the most idle of chit chat.

A few hours later, imagined slights have been soothed, raised voices lowered, diplomatic relations are once again in order, and he is ready to pass the baton to Anthea’s capable hands to finalise what few details he’s left on the table.

Now to fine tune his trip notes for his meeting with the Prime Minister later this afternoon. Everything is in order, of course. He merely has to put his final spin on the material. As other Prime Ministers before her have done, she has come to rely on his analytical skills and trust his insights. It will mean a hasty lunch at his desk while he pores over the latest news articles, polls, summations of security briefings and gossip overheard in the halls of various Whitehall locations (traffic reports, for want of a better term), pulling threads from here, there, and everywhere, weaving together a coherent analysis of where they stand, exactly, on a variety of Great Britain’s most urgent issues.

 Just as he stands to take his leave from the Canadian meeting, his mobile vibrates in his trousers pocket.

_Something’s wrong. SH_

Mycroft scowls before he remembers himself and smooths his features quickly back into their usual placid facade. He blames the momentary lapse on the jet lag, a constant, unscratched itch burrowing behind his eyes, beneath his skin. Something’s wrong, is it? He has absolutely no idea to what Sherlock is referring, nor does he care to indulge in a game of twenty questions at the moment. Without replying, he returns the phone to his pocket and shakes the lead Canadian negotiator’s hand in farewell.

Once out of the conference room, he is met by one of his junior agents, Colin, who escorts him through the maze of corridors leading to Mycroft’s office. A moment later, Colin’s tablet beeps. He opens a document on it and hands it to Mycroft. Without breaking stride, Mycroft scans it thoroughly, then keys in the alphanumeric key code assigned to him that morning. His electronic signature will approve the organisation of a task force focused on possible terrorist influences on mass hysteria. He adds a notation giving Colin full autonomy in naming the members of the task force, which brings a flush to Colin’s cheeks and a delighted, “ _Thank_ you, sir,” before the security agent tucks the tablet under his arm.

A quick glance at his pocket watch as they walk briskly down the hallway, his umbrella tapping every third step, reassures Mycroft he is not as far behind as he’d thought. As they near the exit closest to the street, the door is pushed open and Sir Edwin hurries in, shaking the rain from his umbrella and stomping his feet on the door mat. He glances up, spies Mycroft coming towards him, and stills.

“Ah, Mycroft. Just the man I’ve come to see.”

Bugger all. Considering he’d seen the man not two hours earlier in the SIS briefing, this does not bode well.

“Indeed?” He indicates a secure conference room off to the side which is currently unoccupied. “Shall we?”

Sir Edwin shrugs, lifts a handkerchief to his nose to stifle a sneeze, and precedes him into the room.

Before following him in, Mycroft taps twice on his tie pin as he straightens it. He makes a languid motion to Colin, who stations himself along the opposite wall and starts tapping away at his tablet.

Mycroft closes the door behind him and leans against it. He sets neither his briefcase nor his umbrella down, indicating he has no wish to shake hands or prolong this conversation. Sir Edwin, in the process of pulling off his gloves, sighs, and folds his arms together across his chest.

“I’ve just received word from Sherrinford,” he begins, and Mycroft’s pulse jumps, then settles. He waits patiently for Sir Edwin to continue. Word from Sherrinford could mean any number of things, and Mycroft will do himself no favors by jumping to conclusions.

This time, Sir Edwin’s sigh is more of a snort. “It seems your sister is no longer catatonic. Rather miraculously, in fact, she is reported to have eaten a healthy breakfast this morning, sent her compliments to the chef, and demanded to see you.”

“Me?” Mycroft is unable to conceal his surprise.

“You.” Sir Edwin affirms.

Mycroft’s mind is reeling. Why in the world would Eurus ask to see him, and not Sherlock? Or their parents? Or the bloody Easter bunny, for that matter.

“Was she informed that I am no longer associated with the Sherrinford facility, up to and including her own care?”

“She was. At which point, she insisted the matter was extremely urgent, one of vital national security, and she will speak with no one except you about it.”

Mycroft frowns, marshalling his thoughts. “I suppose we could set up a secure feed-“

“In person,” Sir Edwin interrupts. “At her insistence.”

“No,” Mycroft says, without hesitation. “Absolutely not.”

Sir Edwin nods. “I cannot say I blame you for that response.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes. He waits for the ‘however’.

“However,” Sir Edwin obliges him, “Lady Smallwood and I are agreed that, given the circumstances, it would be best if you meet with your sister without delay. You will be provided with a full security detail, of course.”

Mycroft has two choices. He can acquiesce graciously, or he can tell the head of England’s Secret Intelligence Services where to put his full security detail and get on with his busy day.

He opens his mouth, mind set on the latter, when his phone pulses three times in rapid succession. He hooks his umbrella over the arm holding his briefcase and pulls the phone out, tilting it to the side to read the text message along the edge.

_Hcopter flights to Sford temp suspended - weather. –CF_

Make that three choices. He can stall for time and gather more intel, always his preferred modus operandi.

Three more pulses, and another text.

_Weather to clear by evening. -CF_

He draws a deep breath, says with chilling politeness, “I am, of course, willing as ever to defer to your judgment and that of Lady Smallwood’s in the name of vital national security. Unfor-”

“Excellent!” Sir Edwin reaches for his briefcase. “We’ll-“

Mycroft continues as if he has not been interrupted, “-tunately, my calendar is quite heavily booked this afternoon. The Canadians have managed to put quite a spoke in the wheels, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Please inform the security detail that I shall make myself available this evening, following my meeting with the Prime Minister. Providing the weather has cleared sufficiently to allow for helicopter transport by then, shall we say 6 o’clock?”

Sir Edwin frowns, but has little recourse other than to say, “That will be most acceptable.”

“Wonderful,” Mycroft smiles, not at all pleasantly. He does not appreciate being told what to do and when to do it, especially where matters of family are concerned. “Please also inform your security detail that I shall, of course, be bringing my own personal agents with me. No disrespect intended.”

“None taken, I assure you,” Sir Edwin smothers another sneeze in his handkerchief.

Mycroft places his hand on the door knob and pauses, head tilted to one side.

“Was there anything else?”

“No. Thank you.” Sir Edwin pulls his mobile out and turns his back, a clear signal that Mycroft is dismissed. Mycroft is tempted to be snide, to offer his best wishes to Lady Smallwood, but he still owes Edwin a favor, as yet uncollected, in regard to the Appledore aftermath. As much as Mycroft may dislike the man personally, he cannot help but acknowledge that he is both competent and discreet, two traits which Mycroft appreciates in a colleague. He tamps down on his baser instincts and leaves, quietly pulling the door closed behind him.

In the corridor, he meets Colin’s eyes and says, “Well done, Mr. Fitzgerald. Very well done.”

Colin smiles and nods, then sobers abruptly. “Sir, I’ve accessed the Sherrinford security feeds from this morning. They’re uploading to your laptop now, as well as to the rest of the team. Will you be need-” He stops as their phones ring simultaneously. Color rises to his cheeks as he glances down at his own phone and presses something which effectively unpairs the Bluetooth connection between them.

“Sorry, sir,” he says softly.

Mycroft, noting that the call is from Sherlock, swipes ‘decline’ on his phone and pockets it. While he needs to talk to his brother, the halls of the Cabinet Office building are not the ideal place to do so. He taps Colin on the shoulder with his umbrella handle to show he hasn’t taken offense at the rookie mistake, and they are once again on their way back to the main office suite, this time managing to arrive without incident or interruption.

Once seated behind the desk in his soundproofed and secure office, a fortifying cup of his own specially blended tea to hand, Mycroft allows himself a brief double-temple massage. Ahh. His eyes close in relief as the headache finally eases. Another moment or two of controlled breathing should see him set to rights. He is on the exhale five-six when his mobile vibrates with another incoming text. Wonderful.

_Something is very, VERY wrong. Call me ASAP. SH_

Well. Needs must, he supposes, and pushes the speed dial number for Sherlock. Despite the urgency of Sherlock’s texts, he is still surprised when the call is answered immediately. Sherlock begins speaking at once, before Mycroft even has a chance to greet him.

“Please tell me you have noticed it as well, Mycroft? All of these anomalies? I can’t be the only one who – no, John, for the last time, I am not taking the piss. This is quite serious.”

“Perhaps if you-” Mycroft begins, only to be interrupted by Sherlock, whose voice has risen in pitch at least an octave.

“This morning, Mycroft, I deduced the victim of a stabbing had been out of town on business for the past twelve hours, returning on the morning train from Oxford, hence narrowing the field of perpetrators considerably.”

“A logical assumption,” Mycroft says, failing to see what this has to do with the rising frustration in Sherlock’s voice.

“Yes. Yes, exactly! However, as it turns out, the victim had _not_ been out of town at all.”

“Pardon?”

“According to the victim’s family, he has not been out of town at all,” Sherlock repeats, slowly, as if speaking to a child.

He waits. Surely there is more. But Sherlock is silent. Apparently, he has said his piece and expects Mycroft to make some impossible leap of logic in order to understand what has him so upset.

As ever, Mycroft finds himself disappointing his brother’s expectations.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Sherlock,” he says, finally. His tea is lukewarm now, but he drains it anyway.

“Exactly! It makes no _sense!_ ” Sherlock says. “None of it makes any sense, Mycroft. It’s as though yesterday didn’t happen, don’t you see? But it _must_ have done. I remember it. John remembers it. I’m sure you do as well. However, this man, who was obviously out of town yesterday, was apparently _not_ out of town, and that can’t be possible. It simply cannot. The laws of physics do not arbitrarily dissipate into thin air, do they? Ergo, it is not possible that – oh. Ohhhh.”

The line goes dead. Damn. He’d wanted to speak with Sherlock about Eurus. His finger is hovering over the redial option when he receives a text from John.

_Sorry about that. He’s run off just now, said he had to see someone about a physics question. Been acting a bit weird all day, tbh._

He thinks for a minute, then puts his worst fear into words, _Has ‘Mr. Wiggins’ been around lately?_

The response is reassuringly swift. _No. God, no. He’s not high. Just acting a bit weird._

_Thank you, John. Please keep me posted._

There’s something niggling at the edge of his mind. Something Sherlock just said. If only he weren’t so tired, he’s sure he’d be able to remember what it was. His stomach growls. He needs--

“Hey, you. Got time for a bite of lunch?” Greg is at the door, eyebrows raised, balancing two large cups of coffee and an insulated takeout bag from Pret a Manger. His coat is soaking wet, his hair is plastered to his head, but the containers are dry as can be. Mycroft marvels again at what a lucky, lucky man he is.

“You are an angel sent from heaven,” he tells him, leaning in for a kiss before hastily clearing off a corner of his desk so that Greg can unpack his goodies. There’s the Moroccan lentil soup they both favor, a warm and crusty baguette for dunking, fresh fruit and cheese, and pain au chocolate. It’s lovely and indulgent and exactly what he needs. Knowing Greg, he’s brought enough for Mycroft’s staff, as well.

Greg takes his coat off and hangs it on the umbrella stand beside the door before dragging a chair over to sit beside Mycroft. His pale blue Oxford button down and navy and pink striped tie look a bit worse for wear. Mycroft studiously ignores the urge to straighten the tie and smooth the wrinkles from the back of Greg's shirt.

Greg removes the lids from the soup, filling Mycroft’s office with the mouth-watering aromas of cumin and turmeric.

“I know you’ve probably planned on working through lunch, so I promise not to stay too long. I just really needed to see your handsome face,” Greg says as he hands Mycroft a napkin and then refuses to let go of his hand. Fortunately, Mycroft is quite adept at eating one-handed. He is well past the point of blushing at Greg’s ridiculous compliments, though he does savor them. Handsome face, indeed.

“I take it your morning has not gone well, either?” he asks as he dips a spoon in the fragrant soup. His first taste warms him through and through.

Greg huffs, irritation rolling off him in waves. “Understatement. Everything’s gone wrong as can, and this nasty rain isn’t helping. Destroying evidence, causing accidents. It’s been a right mess. All better now, though,” he says, raising Mycroft’s hand to his lips and kissing his knuckles, one by one. He still hasn’t shaved, although Mycroft knows he keeps an electric razor in his drawer at work for days exactly like this. He should know. He’s the one who put it there. Mycroft smooths his thumb against the stubble on Greg’s chin and admires _his_ handsome face, with its teasing smile and lovely brown eyes that return every ounce of affection Mycroft is feeling.

“So what’s gone wrong with your morning, then?” Greg scoots his chair a little closer, pressing his thigh against Mycroft’s. “Don’t tell me it’s the Canadians? Thought their lot were supposed to be polite and all that.”

Mycroft snorts. “Oh, don’t let their reputation fool you. They can be quite…stubborn. Politely so, of course.”

Greg lets go of his hand, only to put his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders and pull him closer. Normally, they are more discreet, but the prolonged separation has been difficult on them both. At this moment in time, he doesn’t give a tinker’s damn if the Home Secretary himself walks in and sees them. Such is his life these days. He relaxes against Greg’s side and rests his head on his shoulder. Looking over the tempting array of fruit and cheese, he selects a particularly succulent-looking raspberry.

“So, if it’s not the Canadians, then…?” Greg pauses to swallow the raspberry Mycroft has fed him, his appreciative “Mmm,” a sexy rumble beneath Mycroft’s cheek.

“Well, two things, really,” he says, and tells Greg about the unexpected meeting with Sir Edwin and the phone call with Sherlock. He resolutely does not look at his watch, although he is aware time is slipping past.

“So, Eurus wakes up suddenly from a year-long stupor and Sherlock says the laws of physics are broken?” Greg summarises, as only he can. “Bugger us all if those two things are connected. We’d best get ready for the apocalypse, eh?”

“You realise you sound just like the Canadians, eh?” Mycroft teases. Greg chuckles and pulls him in closer, kisses him with all the lazy assurance of a man who knows he is loved and in love. Mycroft responds in kind. All too soon, Greg pushes his chair back with a sigh and gets to his feet. Their fifteen minutes are up. Mycroft misses his warmth immediately, but sets about tidying up. He watches Greg as he fetches his coat, then comes back round and leans down for one last kiss.

“Let me know if you need company tonight,” he says softly. Mycroft smiles up at him, knowing he looks a besotted fool and utterly helpless to do anything about it.

“I may take you up on that,” he says. He might, indeed. Greg has a way of steadying him, and God knows he’ll need it if he is to face a miraculously lucid Eurus to discuss matters of ‘vital national security.’

***

A few hours later, Mycroft and Anthea are ushered into the Prime Minister’s outer chambers. Despite his best efforts and that of their driver, he feels a damp mess. Anthea, of course, looks cool and dry as always. He will never understand how she does it, although he suspects sorcery is somehow involved.

She is scanning the weather forecast on her mobile, narrowing her eyes as she looks at the satellite pictures.

“Sir, I’m not sure the weather will clear in time for your next appointment. If anything, the storms appear to be gaining strength, despite earlier predictions to the contrary. Do you have a preference for alternative arrangements?”

He certainly does. He’d like at least another day, preferably two, before making the trip to Sherrinford. He would, in fact, prefer not to go there in person at all. According to the report, Eurus simply awoke between four and four-thirty this morning, fully alert and oriented. She knew who she was, where she was, what day, month and year it was. She stated that she was hungry and thirsty. She ate, she drank. She thanked her guards. She asked to see Mycroft. When told that may not be possible to arrange, and why, she did not become agitated. She simply insisted again that she had an urgent matter to discuss with him, and only him. And then she waited. Calmly. Patiently. After studying the video footage, Mycroft cannot shake the sense of unease that slithers through his veins and coils in his belly like a cobra, waiting to strike.

Before he can reply to Anthea’s question, however, the Prime Minister’s executive assistant opens the door to the inner sanctum and greets them with a genuinely welcoming expression. He understands she and Anthea are frequent paintball tournament partners in their very limited spare time. He leaves his briefcase and phone with Anthea, his only accoutrements a notebook and a fountain pen. He is as prepared as ever, which is to say, sufficient unto the task at hand.

***

One does not interrupt a meeting with the Prime Minister of England unless it is a matter of supreme urgency, and yet Anthea does exactly that, at 5:15pm that afternoon.

He has seen that exact look on Anthea’s face only once before, when she came to him with news of his father’s fatal heart attack. He draws in a breath, sharply, and squares his shoulders, hands pressing into fists where they sit atop his notebook. The Prime Minister stops speaking mid-sentence, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Prime Minister. Mr. Holmes. I’m terribly sorry for the interruption, but there’s been an accident.” Mycroft’s thoughts race as Anthea pauses, swallows. An accident. Not Mummy, then. Greg? Sherlock? What sort of accid--

“I’m afraid it’s Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade, sir.” Anthea bites her lip, eyes glistening with unshed tears, and it is that, that one unmistakable lapse in his assistant’s iron-willed control that gives Mycroft all the information he needs. His head tilts to the side, begins to shake from side to side.

“No,” he says. The word reverberates in his throat, choking him. He clenches his teeth to keep it from escaping again.

The Prime Minister stands and moves over to him, her hand settling on his shoulder as she addresses them both.

“You must take my car at once. I insist. Mycroft?” The hand on his shoulder squeezes once, then is gone. “Please inform me if there is anything you need. Anything at all.”

He stands on legs that almost fail to support him. Later, he will remember her kindness, the sorrow in her eyes, that firm, steady hand on his shoulder, but for now, he simply turns and follows Anthea into the anteroom, down the back corridors, to the garage. Once they are seated in the back of the prime minister’s limousine, Anthea’s hand clasps his, tightly, and he holds onto it like the lifeline it is. The only thought in his head is no. Simply... no. Not why or how or when, just… no. This is not real. It cannot be happening. It must not be.

It seems like hours, it seems like seconds, before the car draws to a smooth standstill in an underground garage. The door is opened by a uniformed guard, who steps back at once. Anthea starts to slide toward the door but he holds her back. His fingers are shaking in her warm grasp. He’s never shirked his duties before, but right now, if given a choice, he would do so. He is not strong enough to take this in stride. He will break. He is sure of it.

“I fear I shall embarrass myself,” he tells her.

She draws closer, puts a hand between his shoulder blades, and whispers, “No. There’s no shame in grief, sir.” Her words are spoken fiercely, thick with emotion. He nods, once, and takes a deep breath.

They exit the car. Anthea drops his hand, takes his proffered arm instead as they are escorted silently to the elevator. Mycroft has no idea where they are. His powers of observation have deserted him. A hospital, he presumes. Would they have taken Greg to the morgue already? No. He won’t think of that. He refuses. He walks, and he doesn’t think. The antiseptic-scented hallways are blessedly empty as they turn from one to the next. At the end of an interminably long hallway, outside a door with the number 117 on it, stands Sgt. Sally Donovan at parade rest. Sherlock and John Watson stand on either side of her. The stricken looks on their faces tell a story he has no wish to read.

Mycroft stops short. His legs simply will not move him forward. Inside that room is-- is the man who-- inside that room is Greg. His beloved Greg, who brought him lunch only hours ago and made him laugh and kissed him and offered to share his burdens.

His knees give way, and he falls onto them, despite Anthea’s grip on his arm. His fingers clasp his knees, his neck bends down, down, and he rocks forward, a supplicant to whatever cruel fate has done this. No. Please, dear Lord, no. His soul withers and dies within him. He breathes in great gulps of air, fingernails biting into his palms as he pushes his fists down on the floor. His mind remains still and quiet, empty of conscious thought. Just no, no, no. Over and over.

No.

It is his brother who comes and kneels beside him, whose arms go round his shoulders and pull him close. It is Sherlock’s neck his face is pressed against, Sherlock’s familiar scent of tea and tobacco and formaldehyde which envelops him. It is Sherlock who rocks with him on the floor as Mycroft shudders and shakes, Sherlock’s tears that slowly dampen his collar.

Hours or seconds or minutes pass, while time stands still.

He draws back in increments, and Sherlock steadies him, hands on his upper arms, then beneath his elbows as he slowly, carefully helps him to his feet. Mycroft draws deep, unsteady breaths, and nods at Sherlock, not meeting his eyes. Anthea resumes her position at his other side, a hand under his elbow, and the three of them make their way toward the room at the end of the hall, one reluctant step at a time.Sgt. Donovan and John stand on either side of the door, eyes downcast, affording him what small measure of privacy they can. Sally Donovan’s tears run unchecked down her face, the tissue she is holding sodden and torn and useless as she twists it over and over between her fingers. Mycroft pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and presses it into her hands. Her fingers are icy cold, damp. He looks into her eyes, then away from the despair he sees reflected there.

“Sgt. Donavan,” he says, “Sally. Please, I-” He wants to know what happened. And yet, at the same time, he doesn’t want to know. Knowing will make it real, will make the body in Room 117 a corpse, and not his best friend, his love, his heart. His hand reaches for the doorknob, but John steps in front of him.

“Mycroft, no,” John says. His eyes are so kind, so very, very sad. “You really don’t want to do that.”

A thought strikes Mycroft, the first cogent thought he’s had since Anthea walked into the Prime Minister’s office.

“His brother. Kevin. He’s a, a minister. Lutheran. He’ll want to come, perform the extreme unction.”

“He’s been called,” Sally says. Yes, of course. Of course someone will have notified the family already. How many times has Greg made those unpleasant but necessary calls himself, turning to Mycroft afterwards for comfort? He forces those memories down and away.

“I should like to see him now,” he says, his voice hoarse. It is, or course, a lie. In fact, he can think of nothing he would conceivably like less. No matter. He must see, must record the details, must memorize. He must convince himself that Greg is truly, irrevocably dead. If he fails to do so, he will torment himself relentlessly with scenarios in which this has all been a dreadful mistake. A glimmer of hope worms its way into his heart even now. It must be put to rest. He can show himself no mercy in this.

“Mr. Holmes,” Sally Donovan’s voice quavers. She clears her throat, stands a little straighter. “DCI Lestrade was responding to an officer in distress call when a pedestrian stepped in front of his car. He swerved. His car struck an oncoming lorry going at a speed too fast for the conditions, and was then hit on the driver’s side by yet another vehicle entering the intersection. He was--” and here she pauses, her composure faltering. “He was reported DOA. I am so-- I am so very, very sorry.”

Mycroft nods at her. He closes his eyes, and tries not to picture what it must have been like, how Greg must have felt, the moment of panic, and then…nothing. He hopes he didn’t feel any pain, or terror or awareness of what was happening. He may have cursed as he yanked the wheel to the side. He probably did. He wouldn’t have seen the lorry. The rain was so heavy, the wind so strong. He prays -- and he does still pray, for he is not a lost soul -- that Greg’s last moments were painless, that death came swiftly for him, that he didn’t suffer.

“And the pedestrian?” he manages to ask. Because Greg would not have wanted…

“Uninjured,” Sally says.

He nods, tamps down on the immediate rage that fills him. Uninjured. Whilst Greg lost his life. Later. Later, he will dwell on the hows and the whys and the resulting injustices.

“I need to see him,” he says again, and resolutely opens the door. He is aware that they remain there, waiting, ready to come to his side should he need them.

A gurney is positioned in the middle of the room. Cupboards and medical equipment line up against one beige wall, a sink and a waste bin along another. But in the middle of the room is a gurney, and upon it lies a body covered by a thin white sheet. Dear God, let it not be Greg’s body. Let it be a mistake. Please. Please. Mycroft shudders as he approaches the gurney. On it is a foot not covered by the sheet. He touches the ankle, encircles it with his hand, and places it beneath the sheet, so very gently. The ankle is already stiff. So terribly fragile.

The rest of the body is covered by the sheet, and he moves towards the head of it, where the sheet is folded over. His hands are shaking so that he can barely turn the sheet back, but he manages. And there is Greg’s silver and brown hair. Blood is matted in it, and Mycroft wants it washed. He wants the blood rinsed away, so Greg’s hair is shiny and clean, more silver than brown, the way it should be. He folds the sheet back on the side a little more until he finds Greg’s hand, so very, very still, and he holds it, just as he held it a few short hours ago, during lunch. Now, though, Greg’s hand does not squeeze his, his fingers don’t trace over Mycroft’s palm, linger on his wrist…

The rest of the body wavers and swims in and out of focus, and he realises he can’t see it through sudden tears. Impatient, he wipes his eyes with his right hand, and swallows. He pulls the sheet down a little further, until he can see an ear, a cheekbone, a jaw. Greg’s beautiful mouth is torn, his teeth are crushed inside his mouth, and his chin, with its scratchy stubble, is hanging down, out of place. It doesn’t look like Greg, but it is Greg, he is very sure of that. He touches the ring on Greg’s finger that he placed there, less than a month ago. He swallows and swallows, and pulls the sheet down just a bit more, until Greg’s shoulders are revealed. He looks for and finds the almost invisible scar from a motorcycle accident Greg had as a teenager. He bends down and puts his ear to that chest, the same chest that rumbled beneath his ear at lunch, when Greg ate a raspberry and said, “Mmm,” and Mycroft heard it beneath his ear and found it sexy. Now there is only silence in that chest, with its pale, flat nipples, its wiry hair, and its heart that no longer beats, no longer loves.

There is only silence, until the room is filled, suddenly, with an anguished, rasping, keening sound. He’s unaware, at first, that the harsh, inhuman sound is coming from deep within him, but he understands, on some level, that his heart is breaking and that is the sound it makes. He presses his head against Greg’s poor, broken chest, and holds his cold, unmoving hand, and his heart breaks, and breaks and breaks.

Time slips past.

Eventually, he straightens, spine once more stiff, emotions swallowed down with bitter tears. He shrugs out of his coat and lays it on top of Greg’s beloved body, smoothing it over him, tucking it in at the sides. A muffled sob breaks the silence behind him.

He cannot bear to leave him.

They tell him it’s time to go. He knows he must leave, knows he cannot stay here. He knows what must be done, and by whom, but it is his intellect that knows this, not his broken heart, which refuses to leave Greg here, alone. He wants to wait for Kevin, so Greg won’t be alone, and they let him.

He holds Greg’s hand and waits. His mind is blissfully blank, a slate wiped clean of thought. He knows the term for this: disassociation. He has witnessed it in others, but now he understands, finally, the protective nature of such a thing. He is able to function, to carry on, as long as he doesn’t think, and so, for perhaps the only time in his life, Mycroft allows his brain to shut down.

They stay with him, while he waits. Sometimes right beside him, a comforting hand on his back, other times off by the door, but they wait with him, and he is grateful.

Kevin arrives, and he is so much like Greg, a few years younger, a little shorter, his features not quite as sharp. His eyes are more sherry than dark brown, red rimmed from crying, but he has Greg’s nose and when he laughs, he sounds just like Greg. He isn’t laughing now, of course. He blows his nose and clears his throat and wraps his arms around Mycroft and pats him on the back. He promises to stay with Greg, to pray over him, until it’s time for the coroner to come and get him. He speaks with John and Sherlock and arrangements are made for tomorrow, for the rest of the family to come. A wake is mentioned, but Mycroft isn’t really listening. He is unmoored, removed from everything, existing on a separate plane. Forlorn.

They tell him it’s time to go. Because Kevin is there, with his crucifix and his prayers, has promised to stay with Greg, Mycroft can finally leave him in the room, beneath the sheet, on the gurney. Sherlock goes to fetch his coat, but Mycroft stops him. He knows he isn’t acting rationally. He knows Greg is gone, knows he won’t feel the warmth of his coat, and yet he is thankful when Sherlock humors him and gently tucks the coat back where it was.

Sgt. Donovan, Sally, has a quiet word with John before she leaves through a different exit, head bowed and shoulders slumped. Anthea is on her phone as they are all led back to the Prime Minister’s car, which is warm and safe as they traverse the streets through the rain and the wind. He catches enough of her conversation to know she is calling in the troops. She asks to be dropped off at the rear entrance of the Diogenes Club, bumps her shoulder gently against his before climbing out and disappearing into the night.

“Why here, exactly?” John wonders.

Mycroft is silent. He stares out the window as the storefronts blur past them, reminding him of his dreams that morning. Dark. Disjointed. Ominous.

“Making certain it was an accident, I should imagine,” Sherlock says.

 John nods, clears his throat. “You’re welcome to stay at ours tonight. If you like.”

Mycroft shakes his head. He can’t. He needs to go home. He needs to be surrounded by their things, in their home, his and Greg’s. Less than a month. Less than a month they’ve lived together, and for half of that Mycroft was away.

John and Sherlock make a quick stop at Baker Street to pick up a few things, to say good night to Rosie and have a word with Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft is vaguely aware of these things happening, but an icy numbness has seeped into his bones, his brain. He loses track of time.

Their house is just as he’d left it that morning. His tea cup and saucer are in the sink beside Greg’s coffee cup and saucer. He stares at them for a long time, motionless, until Sherlock comes to get him. They sit on the sofa for a while, one on either side of him. John settles a soft blanket over his lap. He stares at the neatly stacked pile of clothes on the writing desk and rocks back and forth. They tell him it’s okay, Mycroft, it’s okay, we’ve got you.

It is not okay.

Sherlock takes out a packet of cigarettes, offers him one. He is sorely tempted, but doubts he’d manage to hold it steady. He shakes his head, breathes in the second-hand smoke Sherlock blows his way, grateful for this small kindness.

The house phone rings, startling him. John answers it, speaks briefly, hangs up. It rings again, and again, until Sherlock disconnects it, takes Mycroft’s mobile and turns it off, lays it on the table. Anthea will handle any urgent matters. The rain pounds against the windows, the grandfather clock ticks, and Mycroft rocks in time to it. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Greg’s broken body on the gurney. Every time he opens them, he sees Greg in this room, hears his laughter. He shivers from the phantom touch of Greg’s hand on the back of his neck. They’ve made love on this sofa more times than he can count. He’d thought to buy new furniture for the sitting room, but Greg had insisted Mycroft’s couch was broken in perfectly, was just the right length. And height. His lips twist into a mockery of a smile as once cherished memories scratch him with newly-grown thorns.

Sherlock’s mobile rings, breaking the silence. He glances at the caller ID, at Mycroft, and declines the call. He curses when John’s phone rings within seconds, and both phones are muted without ceremony.

Mycroft stands abruptly, lets the blanket fall, unheeded, to the floor. He makes a circuit around the room, touching Greg’s things, family photos. The bits and pieces they’ve bought together on those rare weekends they’ve had time to browse antique stalls and church bazaars. Finally, he comes to a standstill by the French doors, looking out. When he realises that he’s waiting for the lights of Greg’s car to come into view, he closes his eyes and just breathes in the familiar smells. Beeswax. The vanilla musk of books, both old and new, on the shelves that frame the French doors. Just a faint tang of citrus, that lemony herbal soap and shampoo that Greg favors. Cigarette smoke, Sherlock’s. Scotch, his. He looks down, sees the tumbler in his hand, not recalling how it got there.

Behind him, he hears murmurs, a quiet conversation. He can’t make out the words. Doesn’t care to try.

He fingers the ring on his hand, twists it round and round, remembering Greg’s reaction to the odd design. How he’d played with it incessantly for days, pulling the bands apart to reveal the tiny heart, pushing them together to make the hands clasp over it. Mycroft chokes as grief claws its way out of his heart and into his throat. He swallows it back down, chases it away with the Scotch.

After a little while, John clears his throat, suggests a mild sedative. Something to help him sleep through the night, get a little rest. He says yes, of course, if John thinks that will help. John takes the tumbler from him, puts a couple of capsules in his palm, closes his fingers over them. Sherlock is there, too, and together, they shepherd him towards his bedroom. He goes into the bathroom, where Sherlock, or maybe John, has put a clean pair of pants and pajamas on the lid of the toilet. Mechanically, he puts them on, refuses to think of lying naked next to Greg. He brushes his teeth and puts his toothbrush back in the holder besides Greg’s, and he doesn’t think of that, either. Of the two of them in here, bumping elbows, laughing. He swallows the capsules and shuts off the light.

On his way to bed he makes a detour to take Greg’s flannel robe off the back of the door. He holds it to his face, burying his nose in the soft gray material. He can’t bear it, knowing Greg’s scent will fade over time. But for tonight, for just this one night… He pulls back the covers and slides beneath them, keeping carefully to his side of the bed. Pulling Greg’s pillow over next to him, he smooths the robe on top of it, carefully places his arms around it and hugs it close.

He lies there, broken-hearted, listening to the rain, until the sedative takes him under.

 

Day 2, Part 2

_Most of the scientific community agrees that time travel is theoretically possible, based on Einstein’s special and general theories of relativity. However, world-famous cosmologist and physicist Stephen Hawking published a 1992 paper, “Chronology Protection Conjecture,” in which he stated the laws of physics do not allow the appearance of closed timelike curves (i.e., time travel to the past). Since its publication, the chronology protection conjecture has been significantly criticized. Most of the criticism centered on Dr. Hawking’s use of semiclassical gravity, versus using quantum gravity, to make his arguments. Dr. Hawking acknowledged, in 1998, that portions of the criticism are valid._ http://www.louisdelmonte.com/stephen-hawkings-chronology-protection-conjectures-impact-on-time-travel-science/

The mobile chimes insistently, vibrations scooting it across the surface of the night stand in tiny increments.

Buried beneath layers of bed covers and exhaustion, Mycroft yawns and rearranges his pillows. His dreams beckon him back to where he is content, happy. The chiming sound becomes a low rumble, and he tunes it out, sleep returning almost at once.

Time slips past.

“Mycroft? I have to leave soon.” Greg’s hand is on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

Mycroft gasps and sits bolt upright, clutching at Greg’s arms, his shoulders, petting his face, pressing desperate lips against Greg’s mouth, his chin, his throat.

Dear sweet Lord above. It was a _dream_. Just a dream. One of the most detailed, realistic, horrible dreams of his life, but a dream, nonetheless. The proof is one very warm, very puzzled, very much _alive_ Greg Lestrade, who is trying his best not to spill coffee all over Mycroft and the bed.

“Here, wait, wait,” Greg says. “Let me put this down. What’s this all about, hm? Are you okay?” He reaches over to switch on the lamp, his worried face a sight for Mycroft’s poor, grieving eyes. He’s not dead. He’s _not_.

Mycroft clings to him. He looks to the door, where Greg’s robe is hanging, just as it always is. He’s not dead. He can’t contain a burst of relieved laughter. Let Greg think he’s gone mad, as long as Greg is here to think that, and not lying dead in Room 117. Not dead, not dead, not. Oh, dearest Lord, thank you, thank you.

“I--” He doesn’t know how to finish. I dreamed you were dead? It was so real. I saw your mutilated body on the gurney, held your cold, lifeless hand in mine, wept over your silent heart. No, he can’t tell him that, not any of it. “I had a bad dream,” he continues, and adds, “A bit of a nightmare, really.”

He pulls Greg onto the bed with him, makes him lie down so he can put his head on Greg’s chest, so he can listen to his strong, steady heartbeat. Greg’s arms have wrapped around him, his sock-clad feet are running up and down Mycroft’s shins. He’s making soothing noises, nuzzling his face in Mycroft’s throat. Mycroft is naked. Greg is- Greg is wearing a rain slicker over his work pants and a pale blue Oxford button down with his favorite navy and pink striped tie.

No.

Mycroft stills.

“What,” he clears his throat, remembering. “What time is it?”

“Early,” Greg says. “Much too early. And I had such plans for you this morning, too.”

No.

Mycroft shivers.

“C’mon, now, you’re starting to worry me. That must’ve been some nightmare,” Greg says, sitting up. Mycroft stares at him, his agile mind discarding one theory after another until he’s left with precognition, which he promptly, skillfully dissects. The human brain is a powerful machine. One’s subconscious can pick up on a myriad of extraneous clues and when the mind rests manifest them into so-called visions. Rain, wet roads, fog. It wouldn’t be at all unusual for Greg to be called into work early on a day like today. Mycroft saw the shirt and tie hanging in the bathroom last night. Greg’s a born flirt who likes to rile Mycroft up by saying things like ‘and I had such plans for you’. He does it all the time, waggling his eyebrows, putting his hands on Mycroft’s arse, laughing. That’s just Greg.

It’s all right.

Mycroft is suffering from sleep deprivation. His brain simply took one of his deepest fears and decided to haunt him with it while he slept. He doesn’t have extra-sensory perception. He just knows Greg Lestrade.

He takes a deep breath, relaxing into Greg’s hold. “Plans, hm? What sort of plans? Do tell, Detective Chief Inspector mine.”

Greg grins.

Mycroft knows he loves that particular endearment and all it implies. Greg takes a quick glance at the alarm clock, looks back at Mycroft, naked and in need of comforting, and comes to an obvious decision even a child could deduce. He shrugs out of his Mac, tosses it over the side of the bed. He stretches out beside Mycroft, nips at his collarbone, gathers him close, and whispers, “Well, knowing how knackered you always are from jet lag after one of these marathon trips, I _was_ planning to take care of you like you deserve.” He strokes his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, pets him. Mycroft moans appreciatively.

Greg continues, sliding a knee between Mycroft’s legs, “Thought I might wake you up with a nice, slow, filthy blowjob? The kind where you come so hard for me I can’t swallow it all down fast enough, mm? And there’s come all over my face and on my hands. I wouldn’t be able to smell anything but you, on me, all day long. I’d like that. So much. In fact,” Greg rasps against Mycroft’s ear, causing goosebumps to pop up on his arms, “I’ve a confession to make. You ready?”

Mycroft groans and nods, yes, yes, he’s ready to hear anything Greg wants to confess. Anything.

“Sometimes,” Greg says, voice husky, pitched just above a whisper, “on days when you’re going to leave and I know I won’t see you for a couple days, or more? Sometimes, after I’ve jerked you off in the morning, when I wash my hands, I don’t – I don’t wash my right thumb, so every time I take a sip of coffee, every time I rub my chin, all day long, I can smell you, smell your come on me.” And that, hearing Greg confess to that, has Mycroft shivering for an entirely different reason. Greg can still surprise him, it seems. Mycroft tightens his arms around him, pulling him closer. He’s wearing too many clothes. Mycroft needs his skin, his warmth, to erase the remnants of the nightmare and replace it with reality. He loosens Greg’s tie, pulls it apart until he can unbutton his collar, pushes more buttons through their holes until Greg’s collarbone is exposed, chest hair spilling over the top of his vest. Mycroft nudges his nose there, Greg’s scent filling his heart with life. He still can’t get close enough, can’t feel enough of Greg’s skin against his own. He pushes his hands down the back of Greg’s trousers, beneath his pants, until he’s got the flexing muscles of Greg’s arse under his fingers. He squeezes. Yes, the play of muscles under his fingers, the desperate way Greg moans, ruts up against him. Better. Still not enough. Mycroft’s prick is leaking against his belly, against the front of Greg’s shirt. He doesn’t care. He just wants, needs-

“Mm, yeah, ‘s good,” Greg’s voice is hoarse. He reaches down, gathers a few pearly drops of pre-come from the tip of Mycroft’s prick. He brings his fingers to his mouth, keeps them there while he kisses Mycroft, licks into him, lets him taste himself. He rolls over, bringing Mycroft with him, on top of him, puts his hands on Mycroft’s arse and pulls him down, hard, gives him free rein to fuck himself all over Greg. Mycroft moans, does exactly that while he pants his need and want and love against the top of Greg’s head, then dives back down for another open-mouthed kiss.

“This how you want it? You want to fuck yourself on me, come all over me?” Greg says, bucking up against him. Mycroft is so close, his prick is so hard. He wonders if Greg can make him come just from his filthy mouth, the things he says when they’re intimate, like this, things only Mycroft is allowed to hear, to cherish.

Greg reaches down, places the flat of his spit-slick middle finger against the cleft of Mycroft’s arse, pets it around his hole, says, “C’mon, c’mon, come all over me. I want you to. Please, Mycroft.” And oh, _oh_ , hearing his name groaned out like that, a plea, a supplication, does him in completely. Greg yanks his shirt tail out and up, releases his belt and unbuttons his trousers, shoving them down to his knees. He adjusts himself, gives Mycroft a target, gives him warm skin and muscle against the length of his cock. He’s missed this the last few weeks, missed the rumble in Greg’s chest as he talks, missed the way Greg’s bare skin is like heated silk as he slides his cock against it, painting traces of himself on the canvas of Greg’s body. Mycroft rolls his hips, thrusting over and over right there, where Greg’s skin is warm and hairy and perfect, a cradle for his hardness. Greg’s cockhead is swollen, red, visible now above the waistband of his pants. Greg reaches in and takes hold of himself, grabs Mycroft’s prick as well and pushes his thumb right below the head, holds it against his own, rubbing them together, silk and velvet, heat and friction.

Mycroft throws his head back, groans long and low, lost in the sensation of Greg’s fingers pulling every ounce of pent-up longing and frustration from his core. His hands are restless, caressing the muscles in Greg’s arms, shoulders, skimming over his neck, finally landing in Greg’s hair, where they delve in, his fingers pulling and twisting. Greg moans encouragement, his fingers tightening as he works their cocks together. Mycroft is reduced to breath and heartbeat and yearning, his body a taut bow, drawn by Greg’s fervent touch, tighter and tighter until the string snaps and his orgasm sweeps through him like a slow rolling tide, taking him under, helpless in its wake. He spends himself, grunting, incoherent with pleasure, striping Greg’s belly, his cockhead, rubbing his semen in good and proper. Go on, Mycroft thinks dazedly, might as well admit it, at least to himself. He’s marking Greg, marking his territory, like some primeval caveman. Christ. His pulse thunders in his ears as aftershocks spasm through his body. He rolls off of Greg, breathless, and collapses onto his back into a boneless heap of satisfaction. He reaches for Greg’s hand, entwines their fingers, squeezes.

Before his heart rate has slowed by even a beat, Greg rises onto his knees, takes himself in his free hand and comes all over Mycroft’s softening cock, groaning his pleasure. Mycroft watches, heart stuttering over itself. Greg is so gloriously _alive_ in that moment, head thrown back, passion personified.

Greg flops back down beside Mycroft and starts licking his fingers, chuckling.

“What?” Mycroft turns his head to observe him, amazed and thankful he is alive.

“Next time, I swear.”

“You swear what?”

“I’ll take care of you, like I said I would.”

Mycroft reaches out, clasps one of Greg’s sticky wet hands in his own. “Was that- what you said, before- do you actually?”

Greg nods. “Oh, yeah,” he says, and presses his mouth against Mycroft’s knuckles, kissing the ring he placed on Mycroft’s finger less than a month ago. “I’ve got it bad for you, Mycroft Holmes. In case you were ever wondering.”

“Me, too,” Mycroft says, then frowns at the imprecision of his words. “I mean, as do I, for you. Also.” He doesn’t think that sounds quite right, either, but he’s so tired, so happily sated, and Greg is alive. Mycroft’s eyelids drift shut. The warm wetness of a flannel sliding gently over his body lulls him even further, and when the duvet is drawn up to his shoulders, tucked in around him, he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Hours later, the alarm sounds, jarring him awake. He turns it off and throws back the covers, slides his legs over the bed and puts his feet on the floor. His bedroom slippers are nowhere to be found, but he wasn’t expecting them to be. He stretches luxuriously, checks again to make sure Greg’s bathrobe is hanging on the back of the door, which it is, and yawns so hard his jaw cracks.

What a way to start the day. Curiosity piqued, he brings his hand to his nose, takes a delicate sniff of his fingers, and huffs out a breath. Well. It’s decidedly…earthy. Despite Greg’s predilection for smelling like bodily fluids, however, Mycroft doesn’t think Anthea or the Prime Minister would appreciate it if he neglected his morning shower. However he can, and does, borrow some of Greg’s citrusy shampoo. Small steps.

On his way back through the bedroom to his dressing room, Mycroft picks up the cup and saucer which have appeared on the bedside table. Again, he tells himself that it’s simply a matter of habit. Anthea is used to his routine. He has never asked her to prepare tea for him in his house, or in his office, and yet she does so frequently. His subconscious knows this.

He’s going into the kitchen, empty cup and saucer in hand, when he hears the doorbell ring. He stops dead in his tracks, the rising surprise in Anthea's voice as she greets whoever is at the door curling dark and ominous in his belly, like a shadow shrinking from the light. A few seconds later, she steps into the kitchen, his coat draped over her arm, plastic wrap from his dry cleaners still draped over it.

Mycroft drops the cup and saucer from suddenly nerveless fingers. They shatter into pieces on the tiled kitchen floor.

She shoots him a puzzled look before heading toward the pantry where the broom and dustpan are stored. Mycroft stares at his coat, which she has draped over the back of a kitchen chair. It was John. John who had called Kevin and made arrangements for Mycroft’s coat to be couriered to him early the next day. But.

No.

Mycroft sways where he stands in the middle of the kitchen. He can’t _think_.

Anthea sweeps up the mess, binning it with her usual calm efficiency.

“Are you quite all right, sir?” she asks, her brows drawing together. Her mobile catches his eye. He wills it not to ring.

It rings, however, of course it does, and she glances down at the screen, eyes widening. “Stephen? Is everything all right?”

She goes into the sitting room to retrieve her tablet.

Mycroft sits at the table and drops his head into his hands. He must think, must puzzle this through, but his thoughts are clouded, murky. He has to eliminate the impossible…why? He can’t remember. The more he tries to bring that thought into focus, the wispier it becomes, until it’s gone. He wants to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over his head and stay there. He can’t-- he absolutely cannot go through another day like yesterday. Not without losing his sanity. Is he still dreaming? Dreaming that he woke up from a dream?

Possible, given this infuriating jet lag. Is it only that, though? Or is something else muddling his thoughts, numbing his intellect? Something more nefarious? A slow-acting poison, perhaps? Why can’t he think? What is _wrong_ with him?

He knows he is not prescient.

Perhaps not déjà vu but déjà vécu? There have been numerous cases cited, of course, but this, this must surely fall into another realm of science entirely?

Science. Sherlock. What was it he’d said yesterday? The laws of physics cannot simply dissipate into thin air? He’s right, of course he’s right. But what is the alternative, then?

“Sir?” Anthea has concluded her phone call, and stands beside him. He’s not sure how long she’s been there while he’s been gnashing his teeth and feeling sorry for himself, unable to come up with a reasonable explanation for what is happening to him. Her hand makes a fluttering motion, as if tempted to land on his forehead, check his temperature. He smiles wryly. Only Greg has ever had the temerity to do that. Well. Greg, and Mummy, of course. Hmm. Mummy. She’s a mathematics genius. Perhaps he’ll give her a call, later. Just check in and casually mention he seems to be losing his mind. Yes. Good plan, Mycroft.

Meanwhile, he blinks at Anthea. Ah, yes, the phone call.

“Your sister? She is recovering well from her appendectomy?”

Anthea’s eyes widen. She raises a hand to her mouth, stutters, “How-- how could you possibly know-?”

Well. In for a penny, in for a pound. He does remember this part, verbatim.

He looks at the arrangement of silk flowers in the middle of the table as he says, “Your sister, Eleanor, took ill yesterday. She was taken to Merlin Park University Hospital, where she’s just had her appendix removed and is recovering nicely. Your brother-in-law, Stephen, is of the opinion that the surgeon was a bit hesitant to proceed. If he’d waited any longer, she could have – it would have been much worse.”

“Mr. Holmes!” She is aghast. He watches the expressions cross her face as she runs the possibilities through her mind, exactly as she’d been trained. Surveillance? No, she handles that, would know of it. Could he have overheard? Slim chance of that, as he is sitting at the table in here and she had removed herself from the room. His phone is in the other room, as well. Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, no matter how- no matter-. Damn it, why can’t he remember?

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir,” Anthea says. She takes a cautious step back from him, and it is this which brings him to his senses.

“My apologies,” he says. He hesitates, drumming his fingers on the table. Does he dare? She is, perhaps, one of the few people who might believe him. Then again, she might place one phone call and he would be whisked away for a psychiatric evaluation. He decides both options are equally acceptable, and continues, “Allow me to explain.”

***

She doesn’t believe him, of course. Not right away. After the second security briefing, however, he can tell that the scales are tipping in his favor. The notes he’d provided her were practically a verbatim transcript of what was said. Hard to argue with that. Still…

 “You require further evidence?” he asks, keeping his tone mild.

She nods. He is thankful that she has not, as yet, made the phone call that would bring armed security agents to take him away for an enforced mental evaluation. He will gladly provide all the evidence at his disposal to prevent that particular circumstance. He glances at his watch.

“Very well,” he says. “You are about to receive a text from Sarah Rogers. She will request a delay of the trade meeting until they are able to find an appropriate replacement for their French translator, who has contracted a case of laryngitis. I believe you replied with the suggestion of someone named Arabella Desmond, but I must confess that my mind wandered at that point to the upcoming SIS meeting.”

They wait. As predicted, ten seconds later, her phone chimes with an incoming text. He doesn’t need to read the screen to know that it is, indeed, a text from her counterpart in the Canadian delegation. The flush of color on her cheeks is confirmation enough. Her thumbs fly over the mobile as she answers the text.

When she finishes, she taps a fingernail on the blank screen and says, “Days do not simply repeat themselves, sir.”

“And yet, this one is in the process of doing so,” he replies.

She sighs, long and hard enough to cloud the window beside her.

“All right,” she says. “Fine.” She sorts through the notes he has given her, pausing at one page in particular and dog-earing it. She continues to flip through until the end, and he knows that she is analyzing the information as she goes, sorting it into categories and prioritizing it. She comes back to the page she had marked and re-reads it.

“Are we-” She hesitates, obviously choosing her words with care. “Do you believe we are meant to prevent his death, somehow?”

Mycroft’s shoulders lift as he inhales. Does he believe that? Oh, yes. Certainly. He fixes his gaze on the handle of his umbrella as he answers her. “I don’t know. Perhaps? Or perhaps I have died and gone to hell, and this is my punishment. I simply do not know.”

“Well,” she says, “I don’t suppose it would hurt to try, would it? Do you know where he was when the accident occurred?”

“No,” he replies. “I was- I did not think to ask.”

“Understandable.” She closes the notebook. “You said he would stop by for lunch? Perhaps if you offered him the use of one of our cars for the afternoon?”

He turns to look at her, raising an eyebrow. She adds, “Well. You may have to insist. Or perhaps we can have his car towed. Accidentally.”

Devious. She has always been one to think outside the box. He nods in agreement. “I suppose it’s worth trying. Short of locking the door and holding him prisoner for the afternoon, I find myself at a loss to prevent him leaving, otherwise.”

“Mm. I’ll take care of it, then.”

It isn’t until the tension drains out of his shoulders that he realises how stiffly he’s been holding himself. Now that Anthea has made the decision in his favor, it opens up far more options. He wonders if she can handle the Canadian meeting on her own, using his notes as guidance. His time would be better spent doing research, drawing up contingency plans. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Anthea open the notebook and begin a list under the heading, Contingency Plans. Feeling slightly more optimistic, he leans his forehead against the window, his breath fogging the tempered glass. He’ll just rest his eyes for a moment.

Twenty minutes later, he rouses as the car pulls to a stop, glancing automatically at his watch. His brows rise in surprise. They’re late for the SIS meeting.

“Traffic was atrocious, sir,” Anthea says, her eyes scanning the local radar displayed on the screen of her phone. “I’ve texted Sir Edwin our revised ETA.”

“Ah. How kind of you,” he says, and means it on multiple levels. He imagines if he looked at the history of her text messages, he’d find one asking the driver to take a few extra turns around the block.

He holds his umbrella for her as they exit the car. They battle their way through torrents of rain into the secure location, which looks like nothing so much as a little bistro on the outside. Inside the fragrant cafe, there are back rooms with secret doors leading to a maze of passageways and elevators, secured by retinal scans and heat signatures. Anthea has confessed to some enjoyment of the cloak and dagger nature of their meetings, but he has always found it a bit much. Right now, as he stalks to the table and presses his thumb into the scanner on the laptop which awaits him, Mycroft wishes he were back in his office already. His focus has improved, though, thanks to the nap Anthea facilitated, for which he is grateful. It is never a good idea to show signs of weakness in front of Sir Edwin.

***

When he arrives at Mycroft’s office for lunch, Greg is a cursing, shivering mess beneath his rain slicker. The bottom of his trousers and his shoes are soaked through. Mycroft is glad of the habit they’ve developed of keeping an extra set of shoes and clothes in one another’s offices. It has come in handy more than once, for more than the obvious reasons. Of course, that means Greg has clothing scattered about in four different London offices, but it also means he is able to change into warm, dry clothes whenever the need arises.

Mycroft can’t help himself. He stands at the door to the ensuite bathroom and watches as Greg undresses and then towels off before pulling on thick socks and clean trousers. The moan of delight he gives as he does so has Mycroft clasping his hands behind his back lest he be tempted to start something they’ve no time to finish.

“Whose idea was this, again?” Greg asks, rolling up his wet clothes and stuffing them into a bin bag. Mycroft winces. His dry cleaner will have a time with those.

“Need you ask?” he replies with only a hint of smugness. He braces himself against the doorframe as Greg steps closer, eyes sparkling, and kisses him. Just a soft brush of lips, a bit of pressure, the moist tip of a tongue, has Mycroft moaning hungrily. He knows what Greg wants. Greg’s arms tighten around him, then release. His hands go to Mycroft’s arse, pull him closer.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we actually don’t have time,” Mycroft says, his fingers sifting through Greg’s hair.

“I know,” Greg says, even as he’s unbuckling Mycroft’s belt, untucking his shirt and unzipping his trousers with remarkable efficiency. In seconds, he has freed Mycroft’s prick and is on his knees, suckling at the tip. “Just give us a taste, mm? Just a little-“

He is interrupted by a sharp rap on the door, and groans, leaning his head against Mycroft’s waistcoat.

“Yes?” Mycroft calls out, biting his lip as Greg places a tender kiss on the head of his prick before arranging everything back the way it was and getting to his feet. He leans in and kisses Mycroft softly, painting his lips with the flavor of his own precome.

“Sir?” Anthea’s voice is raised slightly. She clearly wasn’t expecting to encounter a locked door, after the plans they’d made earlier.

“One moment,” Mycroft says. He straightens Greg’s tie, smooths the wrinkles from his shirt, and dusts his hands across the tops of his shoulders. If only they had more time. Greg’s hands catch his, raise his left hand to Greg’s mouth, where he whispers a kiss over the ring there. Mycroft clears his throat and returns the gesture.

He feels Greg on his heels as he strides toward the outer office door and opens it. Anthea’s eyes widen slightly as she notes the hand Greg has placed on Mycroft’s hip, but she does a wonderful job of ignoring it otherwise.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,” she says briskly. “I’m afraid there’s been quite a mix-up, due to the Canadian delegation’s need for parking space. It seems your car has been towed, Inspector Lestrade.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Greg says. The hand on Mycroft’s hip squeezes. “If you’d wanted me to take one of your cars, Mycroft, all you had to do was ask, you git. I’d have said yes.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, immediately regretting the childish gesture when Anthea fails to hide a smile.

“I’m almost positive you wouldn’t have,” he says, and edges back a step, standing now almost in Greg’s arms.

“I’ll just go and call a driver, then, shall I?” Anthea has her hand on the doorknob, about to pull it shut, when Mycroft holds up a finger.

“Give us a half-hour, if you would?”

“Sir, the Prime Minister--”

“I am well prepared for that meeting, I assure you. Greg hasn’t eaten yet. Nor have I.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll give a call to the tow yard, as well.”

“Ta,” Greg says, and pulls Mycroft back with him as Anthea shuts the door.

They do, regrettably, only manage to have a hasty lunch in the interim between slow, languid kisses. He’s soothed Greg’s ruffled feathers about his car, even managed to make him laugh a time or two, so Mycroft is quite pleased with himself as he sees Greg off. His lips are likely to chap as it is, but he lingers on the last kiss nonetheless, holding Greg close for a long moment before wishing him a safe afternoon.

Mycroft will not let himself believe this is the last he will ever see of him.

He returns to his desk and opens the reports Anthea has provided on temporal causality loops. At the bottom is a concise list of prominent physicists and their phone numbers, along with the appropriate time zones for each. If there was any way he could foist the appointment with the Prime Minister off on Anthea, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so. Unfortunately, that is one meeting he will be forced to take himself. He hopes he will be able to keep his mind on the matters at hand and not make a complete fool of himself.

He manages quite well, until Anthea interrupts the meeting at 5:15pm that afternoon, pale-faced, eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Fuck.

***

“Tell me again. Precisely.” Mycroft’s hands are clenched on his knees. Beside him on the back seat of the Prime Minister’s car, Anthea draws a breath.

“I received a call on your mobile at 4:55pm exactly. It was Sgt. Donovan, calling to notify you of the Detective Chief Inspector’s death.”

“Which occurred at what time, precisely?”

She consults her neatly written notes. “At 4:23pm.”

“Go on, please.”

“Sgt. Donovan said, and I quote, ‘Look, it’s Greg- DCI Lestrade. There’s been an incident. He- he’s been shot. There was an officer in trouble, and he – Lestrade arrived first. The guy freaked out, started shooting anything that moved.’”

“Hmm.”

“When I asked which hospital he’d been taken to, hoping he’d not been fatally injured, she said he’d been taken to the morgue. At St. Thomas.”

“At which point you commenced with the plan we’d agreed upon.”

“Yes, sir. I requested that Sgt. Donovan contact Kevin Lestrade. Then I called the morgue and arranged for a viewing room. I spoke with a Dr. Alexander there, who agreed to do as asked. After which I called your-”

“Were you given the room number?”

“No, sir.”

“Hmm. If you will make a note of it, later, that would be helpful.” He is focusing as much as possible on data points, anomalies, working on a hypothesis, bizarre as it is.

“Yes, sir. I then called your brother, who was quite upset and left immediately for the hospital. Dr. Watson took up the call and I was able to give him more pertinent information.”

“And the CCTV feeds?”

“I have Colin working on that right now. The regular team is being called in to help. That should all be coordinated soon. Sir, I will be happy to provide a written report-”

“Yes. Thank you. I have no wish to view the...incident, myself.”

He begins to rock slowly back and forth. Her hand reaches over and pats his, once, twice, before withdrawing to go back and made an addition to her notes.

Mycroft shoves his misery and heartache aside for the time being in order to concentrate on this new information. Their contingency plan needs tweaking. The fact that the method of Greg’s death changed today opens up an entirely different avenue of thought. He needs more data. He needs to re-consult the leading minds on disruptions in the space-time continuum, and he only has a few hours left in which to do so. He needs to identify every single anomaly that has occurred today and plot the trajectory of possibilities. He needs to think. He needs--

He needs Sherlock.

The room number is 117, as he had expected. The endless corridor leading to it is the same. In front of the door, flanked on either side by Sherlock and John, stands Sgt. Donavan, damp tissue twisting in her hands. It was in this spot, yesterday, that he went to his knees, unable to face what awaited him in that room. Greg. Dead. It hits him now, once more, the overwhelming grief, just as it did yesterday, taking his breath away, cracking his composure. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, cannot fathom why this is happening, but he knows that inside that room, Greg lies on a gurney, dead. He’d thought – he’d _hoped_   – but he’d been unable to change the outcome.

Now, he can only pray that he is given still another chance, some way, to change fate.

Meanwhile, the truth of Greg’s death, his loss, strikes him with all the force of a wrecking ball. He can’t bear it, seeing him like that, again.

This time, when he reaches for the door -- when John says, “Mycroft, no,” his eyes so kind, so very, very sad, “you really don’t want to do that,” -- Mycroft pauses. John is right. Perhaps it’s best that he doesn’t, that he spare himself. Then he remembers how Greg had looked on the gurney, with his ankle sticking out, uncovered. The sheet over his face and the coldness of his hand and the silence of his chest. Mycroft can’t leave him in there, alone. He has to see for himself, has to make sure.

It’s not any easier this time. In fact, it’s worse.

This time, Greg’s handsome face is unmarred. The bullets had entered his upper body, three of them, kill shots. Whoever shot him had not been an amateur marksman. Death had been instantaneous. Mycroft knows that Colin is busy obtaining all of the pertinent information, that Anthea will give him a report later, with all the details outlined and highlighted as necessary. He doesn’t really care, suddenly, about any of that. Right now, he just wants Greg to wake up, wants to hear his voice again, wants this to be simply another nightmare.

He has to check. He pulls the sheet down, finds the scar. He strokes Greg’s hair, runs the tips of his fingers over the stubble on his jaw, lays his head on Greg’s chest. No beating heart, no breath, no sign of life. But there hadn’t been any yesterday, either, and yet this morning Greg had-- they had--

Mycroft lifts Greg’s hand to his face, cradles it gently, and takes a delicate sniff of his thumb. It’s there, just faintly, the smell of sex. So he hasn’t imagined it. He adds this data point to the others that are building in his mind. Yesterday was real. Today was real. Will there be a tomorrow where Greg will be alive? He presses his lips against the ring on Greg’s finger and hopes with all his heart.

***

After Kevin has arrived to pray over Greg’s body, they leave. Once Mycroft is seated in the back of the Prime Minister’s car with Anthea, facing Sherlock and John, he pulls his coat tight around his shoulders and clears his throat. How in the world is he supposed to broach this subject and not sound like a madman?

“Sir? If I may?” Anthea taps her notebook, frowning. Sherlock’s attention is riveted on her immediately.

“Please,” he says, and forces himself to relax his grip on the handle of his umbrella.

“Earlier this morning,” she says to Sherlock and John, “Mr. Holmes informed me that he was experiencing what I have since learned can only be called a temporal causality loop-“

“A what now?” John interrupts, and Mycroft really wishes he wouldn’t. Sherlock shushes him, but places a conciliatory hand on John’s thigh.

“A temporal causality loop,” Anthea repeats. “In simple terms, the events he experienced yesterday have repeated themselves today, with minor exceptions, or anomalies. This morning, he gave me a list of specific events and conversations which would occur today, and of which he would have no way of obtaining prior knowledge had he not already experienced them.”

“And did they occur?” Sherlock asks, eyes intent on Anthea.

“Yes, they did.”

“Oh, my God,” John says, and the look he gives Mycroft is full of horror. “So you- so Greg died yesterday, too?”

“Yes,” Mycroft answers, and does not elaborate. There is no need.

“Did he die the same way?” Sherlock asks. His fingers begin to drum rapidly on John’s thigh.

Mycroft is struck by their absolute lack of disbelief. He supposes it’s not that strange when one thinks of the life they lead, of the things they know, of Sherlock’s scientific curiosity and John’s ability to take the unexpected in stride. Still. He finds himself oddly touched.

“No,” Anthea answers. “We…attempted to change the cataclysmic event. Yesterday, he was driving, on his way to answer the call of an officer in distress, when a pedestrian stepped out in front of him. He swerved into the path of a lorry, was hit by another car, sandwiched between them. Today, hoping to prevent the accident from happening, we had his car towed during lunch and arranged for one of our best defensive drivers to chauffeur him. They arrived at the scene, unharmed, but he was killed there.”

“Hmm, predestination paradox,” Sherlock murmurs.

Mycroft nods. “Mm. I had rather been hoping for Polchinski’s.”

John ignores them both and says, “Actually, it sounds a bit like Groundhog Day, don’t you think?”

“Pardon?” Mycroft asks.

John leans forward, covering Sherlock’s fingers to still their movement, and repeats, “Groundhog Day. It’s an American movie. Bill Murray. He has to repeat the same day, over and over, until…”

“Until what?”

“Well,” John fidgets, looks out the window for a few seconds before turning back to Mycroft. “In the movie, the main character has to, er, learn to be more selfless. Less of an arsehole.”

“Ah,” Mycroft says. His smile is brittle. “And this ‘fixes’ the problem, does it? Everyone lives happily ever after?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, a warning note in his voice.

“We’ll hold that thought as a last resort, shall we?” Anthea suggests quickly. “Should we ask the driver to stop by Baker Street? Or…?”

After a brief discussion, they decide to drop Sherlock and John off at Baker Street. Sherlock has some books he thinks will be of use. John needs to see to Rosie, although Mrs. Hudson has already expressed her condolences along with her willingness to babysit for as long as needed. Anthea will accompany Mycroft back to his house, and the other two will join them there within the hour. There is work to be done, calls to be made, a loved one’s death to circumvent.

The game, it seems, is very much on.

Day 2, Part 3

_Entropy: The Second Law of Thermodynamics_

_According to the second law of thermodynamics, in any process that involves a cycle, the entropy of the system will either stay the same or increase. When the cyclic process is reversible then the entropy will not change. When the process is irreversible, then entropy will increase._

The mobile chimes insistently, vibrations scooting it across the surface of the night stand in tiny increments.

Mycroft fights blearily through the fog that obscures his thoughts. Greg’s ringtone. A shift on the bed as Greg reaches for the phone, spits an irritated “What,” into it. Another shift, the warmth of a hand pressing on his back, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. He is unable to resist as exhaustion pulls him back down into the abyss of sleep.

Time slips past.

“Mycroft? I have to leave soon.” Greg’s hand is on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Relief courses through Mycroft’s body, followed swiftly by adrenaline. His heart jolts against his rib cage.

_Oh, thank Christ._

A new day. A reprieve. Another chance. These thoughts run like quicksilver through Mycroft’s mind as he sits up, reaches for the lamp and fumbles, fingers shaking too hard to manage the switch. Greg does it for him, sets his cup and saucer down and carefully gathers Mycroft close.

“All right there, love? Didn’t mean to startle you.” Greg’s arms slide around him, lifting him off the pillow as he buries his face in the join of Mycroft’s neck and shoulder.

Mycroft clings to him, breathing in the clean, citrusy smell of him, willing his heart rate to settle, his hands to stop shaking. Greg holds him tightly, lips pressed against his throat, beside his carotid artery. He’ll notice the racing of Mycroft’s pulse. Probably already has. Mycroft’s eyes slide over to the door, where Greg’s gray flannel robe hangs, as always. He had taken it to bed with him again last night, needing the reassurance of Greg’s scent before he could fall asleep.

He draws back slowly, easing away and scooting up and over until he’s resting against the headboard with enough room left for Greg between him and the edge of the mattress.

Outside, the wind is howling, the rain is drumming against the window panes. Lightning flashes, strobe-like, through the curtains. A few seconds later, a mighty roll of thunder shakes the house.

That is…quite disturbing.

Greg balances on the edge of the bed in the space Mycroft has made, and sips his coffee. His expression is soft and fond when he looks at Mycroft.

“What?” Mycroft blinks at him. Moments like these, he realises, are too few and far between. If he’s given another chance, he will cherish them, he promises himself. He’ll make more time for them.

“It’s just- nothing.” Greg shrugs, but he’s grinning, eyes twinkling now at some thought he’s had, and Mycroft puts his hand on Greg’s knee, jiggles it a little.

“What? Go on, tell me,” he says softly.

“I-, it’s silly…”

“Please. Tell me.”

“Sometimes, like now, I mean, you just-”

“Yes? I-?”

“Okay, but don’t get mad, promise?”

Oh, dear. “I promise.”

“It’s just, I can’t help it. You- you remind me of a koala bear sometimes.”

“A koala?” Well. That’s certainly not what he’d been expecting.

Greg is flushing, from his neck to his cheeks. “Yeah. I mean, the way you blink at me, and the…” He lifts his hand, fingers smoothing the tufts of hair that have fluffed up over Mycroft’s ears. “These, and, just…”

“My large nose?”

Now Greg’s shoulders shake a little as he chuckles. “Well, no, I wasn’t going to say that. More like the way you hold me, like you’re never going to let go, and I just…”

“Yes?”

“I just love you so fucking much sometimes, you know? But especially when you’re soft and warm and…rumpled. No one else gets to see you like this. Just me.”

Mycroft raises his eyes to the ceiling. Lord, please, please, let me not lose this man. Please.

Greg very carefully puts his cup and saucer down on the Queen Anne table before leaning over and peppering kisses over Mycroft’s cheek, his temple, his ear. And, of course, his nose.

Thunder crashes, and the lamp flickers once, twice, before coming back to life.

Greg sighs, brushes a soft kiss over Mycroft’s lips. “I think that’s my cue to go. Power’s reported out all over the city. Looters out in droves. It’s gonna be a right mess.”

“Mm,” Mycroft threads his fingers in Greg’s hair, pulls him in for another kiss, this one not as soft, a little deeper.

“Be careful?” He breathes the question in Greg’s ear and is rewarded with a little shiver.

“Course I will,” Greg answers. “You, too.”

“Greg, I - I love you, too.” The words are out before Mycroft can bite them back, and Greg’s eyes are suddenly sharp, searching Mycroft’s face warily. It’s not that Mycroft never says the words. He does. Perhaps not as often as he should, if Greg’s first reaction is wariness.

Greg says, “Mycroft, what’s going-” but his mobile starts to ring, and then Mycroft’s does as well, and Greg huffs out a sigh and gets up.

“You’re acting strangely, Holmes,” he says, and points a finger at Mycroft’s chest. “We’re going to talk. Later. Yes, Sergeant, I’m on my way.” Greg holds the phone to his ear and backs out the door, waving it goofily at Mycroft as he goes.

Mycroft stretches out and picks up his phone, frowning at the incoming caller ID. Bugger all. He has _plans_ for the remainder of his morning. Sighing heavily, he swipes across the screen to accept the call.

“Good morning, Prime Minister. How may I be of service?”

***

“You realise, of course, what this means? The escalation in the atmospheric conditions?” Sherlock is pacing in front of Mycroft’s fireplace, violin in hand. His bow taps against his right thigh with each step he takes. Mycroft has prepared a tea service and is placing the tray on the coffee table. He edges the heavy glass ashtray to the side in order to make room.

“We’re doomed?” Anthea mutters under her breath as she reaches for the teapot and starts preparing cups for everyone. John is seated at the writing table, laptop open, multiple screens popping up rapidly on the widescreen TV he’s connected it to.

Thanks to their detailed strategic planning of the night before, it had been an easy matter to gather them together and convince them of the unusual truths of the situation. The contingency plan, with a few additions and modifications, has been carried out flawlessly.

Mycroft settles on the sofa and accepts his tea from Anthea with a nod of thanks.

“Of course,” he says to Sherlock. “Entropy.”

“Cascading entropy,” Sherlock corrects, and Mycroft snorts. Such a thing doesn’t really exist outside of science fiction novels and television shows, but still, Sherlock’s not technically wrong. If such a thing did exist, they are, indeed, experiencing what the effects of it might look like.

Sherlock whirls and narrows his eyes at Mycroft. “You disagree?”

“I don’t really care to argue semantics, Sherlock.” Mycroft takes a sip of tea and lights another cigarette. The room has already acquired a haze of smoke, but at this point, Mycroft frankly doesn’t care. He allows the smoke to fill his lungs and enjoys the temporary calming of his nerves. “The weather has worsened each day, true. I do not, however, believe we are facing an extinction level event, despite the Prime Minister’s insistence otherwise.”

“No, we’re not,” Sherlock agrees. He stops his pacing to point his bow at the other occupant of the room, snoring peacefully in the club chair by the fire, a soft blanket tucked around him, his legs propped up on a hassock. “But _he_ is.”

Mycroft blows a steady stream of smoke out his nostrils. He’s come to the same conclusion, but hasn’t wanted to voice it. Trust Sherlock to plow straight on through to the heart of the matter. Mycroft can’t keep his eyes off Greg’s still form. Despite John’s reassurances to the contrary, he worries that the dose of tranquilizer they’d given him had been too high. Greg has not roused once in the hour since they kidnapped him and brought him home. That’s good, Mycroft tells himself, that’s exactly what he’d wanted, but he still worries and watches him to be sure he’s breathing. For now, at least.

“I don’t follow,” Anthea says. She pours an unhealthy amount of spiced rum in her tea cup and sips it delicately.

Sherlock resumes his pacing. “Something, or someone, has torn a hole in the space-time continuum. Obviously. What we don’t know for sure, but must deduce if we are to solve this, this-“

“Case,” John murmurs beneath his breath.

“Conundrum,” Mycroft offers.

“Mystery,” Sherlock says, pronouncing each syllable precisely, “are the who, what, why and how. Now, since Mycroft is the only one we know of who can remember each day’s events, we can only surmise it has something to do with him, thus telling us the ‘who’, and because Greg’s death is of overwhelming importance to him, we might also surmise that to be part of the why. We also know when, as the day which repeats itself is today. Monday. That leaves us with the how and the what. Meanwhile, Ms. Jones, we also know that just as nature abhors a vacuum, the space-time continuum abhors a paradox, thus creating the temporal causality loop. Given the opportunity, the space-time continuum will reset itself or…” he hesitates, shoots a guilty look at Mycroft. Mycroft shrugs. He’s not wrong, and if it helps him to think out loud to an audience, Mycroft is loath to interrupt.

“Or?” Anthea drains her cup in three swallows and pours herself another, leaving off the tea this time.

“Or, _not_ given the opportunity, it will eliminate the paradox.”

“So, we’re doomed, then,” Anthea says. She sneaks a glance at Mycroft, who shakes his head at her insouciance.

“The paradox being Greg, you mean,” John clarifies as he stands up from the writing table and nods toward the widescreen TV.  In one corner, the BBC feed shows intrepid reporters standing out in the storm, their umbrellas turned inside out, shouting to make themselves heard above the wind and the sounds of glass breaking and storefronts collapsing. In another corner, a satellite image shows the largest hurricane-like storm system ever recorded in European history bearing down on the United Kingdom. Everything in its path is painted in red and purple hues. In other words, doomed. Other sites monitor a plummeting stock market, show the concerned talks going on amongst world leaders, display Sir Roger Penrose being interviewed and looking quite baffled. A whiteboard is displayed prominently behind him, over which various learned physicists are gesturing wildly and writing equations and erasing them just as quickly. It looks as though fisticuffs will break out momentarily.

Mycroft had coordinated the evacuation of the Royals, the Prime Minister, and most of the Privy Council, Lords and Ministers earlier that morning. A courageous few had chosen to remain with their families in England. He tells himself he will remember them and reward them accordingly when this is all over.

“Well,” Sherlock says, drawing Mycroft’s attention back to his brother. “Not Greg himself, precisely. Greg’s continued existence. As you correctly deduced, Ms. Jones, Greg’s existence, or lack thereof, seems to be the key. If only we knew how…”

Sherlock raises bow to violin and plays Alma Deutscher’s Concerto in G Minor while he thinks. Mycroft smokes and watches Greg for any signs of consciousness or lack thereof. John sits down and listens, eyes closed, worry wrinkling his brow. Anthea drinks.

The grandfather clock strikes four.

Sherlock stops playing and solemnly places the violin and bow in the case. He is silent, and Mycroft exhales slowly. Sherlock sits down beside John on the couch and takes his hand, holding it tightly. No last minute heroics, then. No brilliant flash of insight. Sherlock Holmes is stumped. The mystery is to remain unsolved. Bloody. Buggering. Fuck.

Thus, they are left with this, their plan of last resort. They will make sure Greg is home, safe, protected. Mycroft had insisted that he not be awake, in case he…well, in case the worst happens. In case he dies, again, somehow, despite their precautions, Mycroft could not bear for him to feel pain or shock or uncertainty. It is the least they can do, surely.

They wait.

At a quarter past the hour, Mycroft walks over to where Greg is lying back in the chair, no longer snoring, but breathing deeply, steadily. He kneels beside him, this dear man who loves Mycroft especially when he’s rumpled and fluffy. He takes Greg’s hand in both of his and cradles it against his cheek. A part of him, a very small, selfish part, wants to wake Greg up so he can talk to him one last time, before-- No, that would be worse, to see the light go out of his eyes. Also, Greg has not yet been sleeping at his time of death, and they are testing a theory. They won’t have time to test the myriad other theories they’ve brainstormed over the course of the day. It was agreed this one carried the least risk and the most hope.

His lips press against the ring on Greg’s finger, one of two rings he’d commissioned for them six months ago, an unfamiliar hope in his heart as he’d looked at patterns. They’d exchanged those rings less than a month ago, when Greg had moved in with him. Promises had been made and kept. Three bands, two hands on either side, a heart in the middle. When the bands slide into place, the heart is hidden safely within the hands. Sentimental, and yet so very true. Mycroft kneels beside the man he loves, the man who holds Mycroft’s heart in his hands, and prays for a miracle.

He doesn’t place his fingertip on Greg’s pulse, so he doesn’t note the precise moment it stops beating. It is only the gradual cessation of breath, the cooling of the flesh beneath his cheek that gives him his answer. He breathes kisses onto Greg’s knuckles, his palm, and slumps to the floor beside him. At least tonight he won’t have to leave him lying on a gurney, cold and alone.

The floor creaks and movement stirs the air behind him. A hand is placed gently on his neck.

“Mycroft, I am truly sorry,” Sherlock says quietly. “Forgive me.”

Unable to speak, throat clogged with more emotion than he is able to cope with at the moment, Mycroft reaches back and grasps Sherlock’s hand. It’s not his fault, of course it’s not. When he gets his voice back, he’ll tell him that.

Lightning and thunder flash and boom simultaneously, and the house shakes. The lights go out.

Time slips past.

He is vaguely aware that linens are being changed, that Greg’s body is being tended to by John, and he is grateful, once again, for his family, both born and found.

A match is struck, wisps of sulfur causing his nose to twitch. When he opens his eyes, they are arranged around him in a semi-circle, John and Sherlock sitting cross legged, leaning against one another, hands clasped, Anthea semi-recumbent on a cushion, a candle sitting on a plate between them. Mycroft leans back against Greg’s chair, his head resting on Greg’s thigh.

Sherlock clears his throat. “You know, the first time I met Greg-“

“Gavin, you mean?” John asks, nudging Sherlock’s shoulder.

“George, I think,” Sherlock says. “I thought to myself, finally, a Yarder who’s not a complete idiot. And then, of course, I threw up all over his shoes. Thought he was going to arrest me for that.”

Mycroft nods. “Yes,” he says. “He told me he thought about it, but he felt too sorry for you at the time. In addition, Susan had bought him those shoes. He hated them.”

He’s heard the story. He listens to it eagerly again, though, as Sherlock continues, and then John starts telling the one where Sherlock first suspected Mycroft and Greg were seeing each other, and Mycroft remembers that, too. John talks about how Greg had come round to Baker Street and told Sherlock to mind his own business for once, or the next drugs bust would be a real one. This is news to Mycroft, but not really a surprise. Greg has- had _-_ always been protective of him, from the start. Anthea remembers the first time Greg figured out she was part of Mycroft’s security detail, how he’d pulled her aside and grilled her, insisted she show him the weapons she carried and explain to him what precautions she normally took for Mycroft’s safety. She’d taken offense at first, until she realised he wasn’t doubting her competence or her loyalty. He was doing it for his own peace of mind, he’d said, so he could sleep at night during the times Mycroft was out of the country.

As he sits and listens, the knot of love and loneliness in Mycroft’s chest loosens just a little, and he finally joins in. He tells them about that morning, how Greg likened him to a koala. John holds the candle up a little, pulls a face, and says, “Yeah. Spot on, mate. Definitely.” They laugh, and remember other times, other stories. Anthea fetches a bottle of wine and some glasses, and they toast him, each toast a little more ridiculous than the last.

After a while, Mycroft’s mobile begins to ring and ring, each call declined. Sir Cedric. Lady Smallwood. No doubt they have urgent questions about emergency preparedness. Anthea turns it off. With a fatalistic shrug, she turns her phone off as well.

Eventually, the lights come back on and John makes sandwiches and they all have a bite to eat. They’re all going to stay over, of course. They can’t get out in this weather. John and Sherlock will take his and Greg’s bedroom, and Anthea the guest room. It’s been a very long day, and they’re tired and drained, emotionally and physically.

Mycroft changes into his pajamas, puts Greg’s ancient flannel robe on over them, and makes a nest of cushions and blankets on the floor beside Greg. He’ll hold vigil there in the dark until, hopefully, he wakes up beside him in their bed the next morning.

Time is running out. He agrees with Sherlock’s assessment. At the current rate of entropy, he has one loop left before either time resets itself or the world as he knows it comes to an end.

Mycroft thinks back over all the stories they’d shared earlier. He realises, suddenly, that he’s been going about this all wrong. He’s been trying to protect Greg, to save his life, to change his fate, and while his intentions were all well and good, they have surely been misguided. He’s been foolishly shutting out the one person in the world he should have been sharing this with.

Greg.

Day 2, Part 4

 _…quantum entanglement is a phenomenon in which particles or points in a field, such as the electromagnetic field, shed their separate identities and assume a shared existence, their properties becoming correlated with one another’s. Normally physicists think of these correlations as spanning space, linking far-flung locations in a phenomenon that Albert Einstein famously described as “[spooky action at a distance](https://www.quantamagazine.org/20150424-wormholes-entanglement-firewalls-er-epr/).” But a growing body of research is investigating how these correlations can span time as well. What happens now can be correlated with what happens later, in ways that elude a simple mechanistic explanation. In effect, you can have spooky action at a delay._ <https://www.quantamagazine.org/time-entanglement-raises-quantum-mysteries-20160119>

The mobile chimes insistently, vibrations scooting it across the surface of the night stand in tiny increments.

Greg Lestrade, buried beneath layers of bed covers, totally knackered and welcome-home shagged to bits, tries and fails to stir up enough energy to reach for the phone. He breathes deeply, filling his nose with the familiar combination of sex and Mycroft’s spicy cologne, overladen by a faint aroma of beeswax and vanilla. A trace of wood smoke lingers in the air. The warm body cocooned against him shifts and stretches. The chiming sound ends, finally, and Mycroft says, “He’ll have to call you back, I’m afraid.”

Wait. What the hell?

He sits up and rubs a hand over his face, squinting against the sudden bright light. Mycroft’s switched on the bedside lamp and is sitting back against his pillows, Greg’s mobile in his hand. He looks…lost, somehow, like he’s not sure why he just did what he did. Greg isn’t sure, either, but he’s willing to listen to an explanation.

“Um,” he says, and okay, he’s not his best at…he rubs his eyes again and tries to focus on his watch. Bloody buggering fuck. It’s 4 am. Yeah, not his best at 4 am, doesn’t pretend to be, especially when he’s pretty sure it was after midnight  before he and Mycroft had finally drifted off to sleep, sticky and sated, all tangled up together. They’d spent a miserable two weeks apart from each other, and Greg had- they both had- been insatiable. Still.

Outside, a terrible storm is raging. Rolling thunder shakes the windows in their cases, lightning flashes so rapidly it’s almost like sunlight, while the wind howls like a mournful banshee. He’d gone to sleep looking at Mycroft’s peaceful features limned by moonlight. This is not…natural.

Mycroft is looking at him as if-, as if he’s trying to memorise him. Greg’s seen that look before. Hell, he sees it almost every time Mycroft leaves to go on one of his ‘diplomatic missions’, the ones that keep Greg glued to the news reports, trying to catch a glimpse of him, safe and sound, in the background. The ones that have him up pacing the floor at two am, waiting for the ‘I’m okay’ text Mycroft never fails to send. Unless his phone has been confiscated, and wasn’t that a fun time for everyone?

Greg runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” he says, and has to clear his throat to get the gravel out of it. “Mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

Mycroft opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Instead, he reaches over and takes Greg’s hands in his. His thumb absently taps against Greg’s ring, as it always does when they’re holding hands. Greg figures it’s Mycroft’s way of reassuring himself, just a nervous tic, a yes, we are committed, yes, we are going to marry someday, if and when one of us gathers up the nerve to ask, and yes, this is real and oh, yes, I’m the luckiest bastard alive. All of which is true for Greg, as well, and he has a similar way of grounding himself. He does it now, bringing Mycroft’s hand to his mouth and whispering kisses across his knuckles.

Mycroft swallows, loudly, and squeezes Greg’s hands. He gets this intense look on his face, the one that means ‘what I am about to say is important, and you need to heed my every word’. He usually saves that look for Sherlock, though. A shiver of dread work its way down Greg’s spine.

“Greg, I must tell you some-,” Mycroft begins, but Greg leans in quickly and kisses him, cutting him off mid-word. Mycroft’s eyes widen, then narrow. He opens his mouth again.

Before he can continue, Greg says, “Look. I can’t – this sounds serious. It is, isn’t it?” He barely waits for Mycroft’s nod before he says, “Right, then. So, you’re naked, I’m naked, and it’s four in the morning. I’m going to need you to get dressed while I go and make us some coffee before this goes any further. Okay? Just- not another word.” He kisses Mycroft again, on the shoulder this time, and slides out of bed, leaving Mycroft to stare after him with his mouth still parted. On his way out the door, he grabs his gray flannel bathrobe off the hook and shrugs into it.

As he makes his way down the hall toward the sitting room, he stops here and there to pick up their (mostly Mycroft’s, if he’s honest) discarded clothing from the night before and stacks them in an untidy pile on the first clean surface he comes to, the writing desk. He flicks on lamps as he goes, but the storm gives him pause, and he goes back to fetch the candelabra off the mantel. He catches a glimpse of something gold glittering on the carpet and bends down to pick up Mycroft’s pocket watch. Yep. Still just a few minutes after 4 am.

In the kitchen, he turns on the electric kettle and sets the French press on the counter beside it. His hand hovers over his usual Brazilian roasted beans, but moves on until he unearths the only coffee Mycroft will drink. Some hoity-toity Hawaiian blend that costs an arm and a leg, but tastes as good as it smells. Greg saves it for special occasions. Like anniversaries and tiramisu, and now, he guesses, four am confessions. Because he can tell this is going to be a confession. Mycroft _hesitated_ before he spoke, gathering his thoughts, and he doesn’t do that with Greg any more. They’re well past having to choose their words with each other. Well past it. Or, at least, Greg thought they were. He grinds the beans, dumps them in the press, pours the boiling water over them and waits. All his movements are precise, economical, allowing his thoughts to wander.

Something slams into the side of the house, jolting him out of his thoughts. Where did this storm even come from? The weather forecast for today had been for light drizzle, clearing by mid-morning. Typical November London weather. But this? The wind and rain and thunder are fierce. He can’t remember anything like this before, outside of a cheesy horror movie.

Stifling a yawn, Greg gives the coffee a brisk stir before pressing the plunger down, ever so slowly. He pours himself a cup and swallows half of it in one tongue-burning gulp, then refills it, pours Mycroft’s and adds a touch of cream. Real cream, not that part-skimmed shite Mycroft pretends is his preference. He puts both of the cups on their matching saucers and sets them on the kitchen table, goes back to fetch a plate of biscuits and the French press before filling the kettle again.

He waits, tapping his index fingers on the table in an increasing tempo. He’s on his second (and a half) cup before Mycroft appears in the doorway. He’s put on a pair of trousers, but instead of shirt, tie and waistcoat, he’s wearing one of Greg’s jumpers. The soft green one he’d worn yesterday, in fact, with its black cherry stain on the sleeve. Damned squirty things, those cherries.

Greg doesn’t say anything, but relaxes just that little bit. If Mycroft’s wearing Greg’s clothes, the confession’s not going to be as bad as all that. Else he’d have suited up, put those layers of armor between them.

But something _is_ very wrong. Mycroft looks wrecked. Worse even than he had last night, when he’d stood on the threshold and dropped his briefcase and suitcase on either side of him. He’d opened his arms and Greg had settled into his embrace carefully, despite how much he’d wanted to push him against the wall and have him, right then and there. Mycroft had been tired, then, jet lagged from circling across two hemispheres in a matter of days. Now, he also looks haunted. Purplish shadows sit beneath his bloodshot eyes. He’s shaved, made an attempt at grooming his hair, but he’s not- he’s not put together. His lips are bitten red, his hands are shaking so hard that the cup rattles in its saucer until Mycroft sighs and places it back down.

Greg gets up and fetches an earthenware mug, tips the coffee into it, and pushes the dainty cup and saucer away. He gently places Mycroft’s fingers around the mug. Mycroft smiles faintly and takes a sip, then another and another.

“Right, then,” Greg says. He sits back down across from Mycroft because he wants to watch him, wants to catch all the micro-expressions as they cross his face. It’s something Mycroft has taught Greg to do, in interviews, and it’s highly effective. But Mycroft’s not a witness, not a criminal, so Greg reaches out with his bare foot and hooks it around Mycroft’s ankle, smiles at him encouragingly. “Let’s have it.”

Again, with the hesitation, the careful choosing of words. It’s almost painful to see. Mycroft stares down at the table, frowning.

“Oi,” Greg says, “whatever it is, love, you can tell me. I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”

He’s not expecting to see utter despair in the eyes that Mycroft raises to his.

“That’s exactly the problem,” Mycroft says, and shudders out a sigh. “You are. You’re - you’re going to die this afternoon, Greg, and I can’t figure out how to stop it from happening.”

And with that, because Greg is evidently living in the midst of his very own horror story, the thunder crashes, the house trembles, and all the lights go out.

“Bloody buggering _fuck_ ,” Mycroft says, with feeling, and Greg can’t help himself. He starts laughing.

***

A half-hour later, Greg’s not laughing. He’s on his fourth cup of coffee and he’s staring down at the pocket notebook he carries with him on cases. He’s filled it with all the details Mycroft has been able to remember about the events that have taken place over the past three days. Something is tickling his brain.

Strangely enough, he believes Mycroft has been reliving the same day over and over. He hates that his death has caused Mycroft so much pain, so much grief, but he can’t change that, can he? If he’d been in Mycroft’s place, he’d be staring at rubber walls right now. It’s a testament to the strength of Mycroft’s character, his spirit, his damned intellect, that he’s able to sit before Greg now and give an exhausted recounting.

“Something doesn’t make sense,” Greg says. He ignores Mycroft’s sarcastic huff. “No, I mean, it’s- okay, let’s go back to the very first day, all right?” Greg sits up straight and faces Mycroft as if he’s a witness. It’s what he does, isn’t it? Picks apart statements, comes at them from different angles to get at the truth, worries away at that ‘something’ that doesn’t make sense until he’s able to see what he’s been missing.

Mycroft straightens his shoulders and nods at him. He’s willing to play along. Greg knows he has to be thinking that if he and Sherlock -- and Anthea and John -- couldn’t figure this out, then how can Greg? But they’re not Greg, are they? They don’t know Mycroft the way he does. They weren’t with Mycroft the night before this all started. Oh. Ohhh, that’s it, isn’t it? He wonders if this is the feeling Sherlock has when something pings and he _gets_ it. No wonder he’s such a prat, if he feels like this all the time- it’s enough to make a man damn proud of himself. He has to work up to it, though. Lead the witness, as it were.

“So, we’re asleep. I get the call from work. You’re out of it, jet lagged, not thinking clearly…”

“Yes.”

“I wake you up, like I always do, after-“

“Bethesda.”

“Bethesda. Right. Learned my lesson there, didn’t I?” He smiles across at Mycroft, and even in the pale candlelight, Greg is able to see the flush rise in Mycroft’s cheeks.

“I should hope so,” is all he says, though, very prim and proper. Greg wants to kiss him, ruffle him up a little. Nothing new, there.

“Right. Okay. I wake you up, tell you I have to go in to work. We kiss a bit. I’m tempted to stay, like I always am…”

“Always?”

“Oh, yeah. Always. Leaving you alone in our bed like that? Hardest part of the job, trust me.”

“Hmm.”

“Okay, so I leave, you go back to sleep, and then your alarm goes off. You get up, put on my robe, which is not the first time you’ve done that, by the way. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you like wearing it, too, Mr. But Silk is So Much Better. That’s your Christmas gift sorted, isn’t it?”

Mycroft snorts. “Dear God, I hope not.”

Greg smirks, makes a note on an empty page. Ha bloody ha. He continues, “Anthea brings you tea. You shower, get dressed, et cetera, et cetera. You’re in the kitchen when you hear the doorbell ring.”

Mycroft nods.

“You go to the door and see a courier leaving. Do you notice what kind of courier?”

“Pardon?”

“The courier. Is it one of your men? Someone from the dry cleaners? FedEx?”

“Ah, no, I don’t- I don’t believe I noticed that particular detail. I was rather thrown by seeing my overcoat hand-delivered to the front door.”

“Okay. Now, I just want to make sure of this part, Mycroft,” Greg says, slowly, all business now, looking down at his notes. “This _is_ the first day we’re talking about here?”

Mycroft frowns. “Yes. The first day.”

“So where’d you leave your coat the day before?”

“What?” Mycroft comes to attention. It’s a sight to see, the way every muscle in his body stills for a split second, the way his eyes narrow, his spine straightens. He reminds Greg suddenly of a panther about to strike, all coiled muscle and quivering sinew. Greg takes a deep breath and fights down the sudden surge of arousal this vision of Mycroft brings on.

“If you’re remembering the first day, and I really don’t think you are _,_ then where did you leave your coat the day before? Because last night, Mycroft, my last night, the one where you got back from your international trip and we-, we had the best welcome-home shag of our lives, in my opinion? Last night, you were wearing your overcoat. It was cold outside, and you were wearing it. I distinctly remember taking if off you and hanging it in the hall closet.”

“So, I- I’ve lost a day?”

“Maybe. Maybe more than one, for all we know. Let’s move on, because I have an idea about that.”

Mycroft is staring at him now as if he holds the key to the universe.

Greg swallows, hard, and goes back to his meticulous notes. “Right then, we’ll come back to the coat. After that, Anthea receives a call about her sister.”

“Yes, that was-, yes.”

“Then you have security meetings, but nothing out of the ordinary happens in them that you remember, or that you can tell me about.”

Mycroft nods again. “Greg, trust me, at this point I would tell you every state secret I know if I thought it was pertinent to saving your life.”

Greg believes him. That’s actually part of his working theory.

“Then you had the meeting with the Canadians. Again, nothing out of the ordinary there, correct?”

“Correct.”

“However,” Greg says, and he sees the exact second that Mycroft realises where he’s going next because he does that quivering to attention thing again, and yes, Greg’s body reacts exactly the same way as it did moments ago. “On the way to your office, you and Colin run into Sir Edwin. He’s head of the SIS, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. And he’s one of the blessed few who are tasked with looking after Sherrinford now that you’ve stepped away from that role. Have I got that right?”

“Correct. He and Lady Smallwood.” Mycroft winces, just slightly, at the mention of her name. It’s okay. Greg isn’t going to go there. He’s over it. He has Mycroft, doesn’t he? And she…doesn’t. So he’s fine with that, now. He has more important things to consider.

“So, on the day that you think is the first day, he tells you that Eurus woke up. After almost a year of withdrawal, not showing any signs of outward communication at all, she just wakes up normal as hell, eating, drinking, making merry, and she needs to talk to you. And only to you. Privately.”

“That’s the gist of it, yes.”

“But…?”

“But I couldn’t go to her. The weather was too bad for the helicopter ride out to Sherrinford. And then, later, you- you died. So I didn’t…oh, for God’s sake. Of course.”

Greg sits back and folds his arms against his chest. This is usually the part where the witness or the criminal realises that Greg has figured out their secret and the best thing for them to do at the moment is call in their solicitor. Some of them can’t wait, though. They have to break down and confess right then and there.

He watches Mycroft’s face in the candlelight as he makes the connections. He’s not surprised when Mycroft jumps to his feet and starts to pace, muttering to himself.

“Eurus, of course. I must’ve already-, but no, I can’t have. I’d remember. Or perhaps she-”

“Hey, sit back down, yeah?”

Mycroft sits. He’s rubbing his temples now like he does when he has a migraine, and Greg scoots his chair over next to him. The time for interrogating the witness has passed. Now he needs to take care of the man he loves. He slips an arm around Mycroft’s shoulder and pulls him in.

“Look. From what you’ve told me, we don’t have much time.”

“No. No, we don’t.”

“Right, so I think, rather than trying to figure this out ourselves, or calling in the troops like you’ve been doing, we need to figure out how to get to the source. Yeah?”

“Get to the source? Oh, of course. Sherrinford. But, we can’t. The storm. Good Lord, how could I have missed this? Now it’s too late, and you…”

Greg shushes him. “Listen. You were jet lagged. You know how that affects you, under ordinary circumstances. But something extraordinary happened, didn’t it? ‘Cause I think you went to Sherrinford that first day, and you did meet with Eurus, and somehow, someway, the two of you managed to fuck up the space-time, er…”

“Continuum.”

“Yes. That. But we can’t know for sure what, exactly, happened until you go talk to Eurus again. Right? For all we know, you were drugged. Or, or whatever the hell it is she does to people. So, don’t waste time and energy beating yourself up over not figuring everything out. Okay?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath. “Okay. Yes, you’re right.”

Greg draws back, puts his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders, and gives him a little shake.

“Look. As to how we’re getting there? You’re Mycroft bloody Holmes. When you say jump, your people say ‘how high, sir’, don’t they? So – I’m going to let you figure all that out while I get dressed. Try not to use your phone too long, since we’ve no power to re-charge it.”

Greg leans in and kisses the eyebrow Mycroft has just raised, then just to the left of the bridge of his nose, where that damned deep furrow has made an appearance. He wants to linger, kiss every inch of Mycroft’s beloved face, but he’s given the man a task, and he has set one for himself as well. He’d best take himself off before he forgets they have less than twelve hours before he’s going to die again. Probably for good this time, if he’s understood the cascading entropy thing.

He lingers just outside the door, though, for just a moment, shamelessly eavesdropping. He hears a long series of numbers being entered on Mycroft’s phone, a pause, more numbers, another pause, and then, “Ah, General Vashchenko. I believe you currently have a submarine positioned just off the British coastline? Mm? Oh, please. Don’t bother to deny it, Mikhail, I have recently viewed the satellite photos. Yes, well, as it turns out, I find that I am in need of it. Why, yes, I _am_ calling in the Leningrad favor…” and then he switches to Russian.

Greg wonders if he has time to toss one off quickly before he gets dressed, because Mycroft Holmes ordering Russian generals about has his cock tenting the front of his robe. Jesus. A bloody submarine! He does wonder briefly how they’re going to get to the submarine, and from the submarine to the island, but what the hell. He trusts Mycroft to sort that out.

***

He’s never trusting Mycroft to sort things out again, ever, Greg decides, as he wraps his arms around his middle and stares uneasily at the tiny halo of clear blue sky above them. They are in the tiniest fucking eye of the largest fucking quasi-hurricane ever to exist in the fucking history of mankind, and Mycroft Holmes is at the helm of their commandeered submarine’s tender, having a casual conversation with the boat pilot. Captain. Whatever the fuck he is. The seas are not calm, regardless if the sun is shining and the wind has died down to a gentle breeze. Greg’s stomach roils and twists, and he grabs for the bucket. Again.

He hopes to God he is able to block this day from his memory. If and when he survives it.

“Greg?” Mycroft is somehow by his side now, a gloved hand resting on his back, between his shoulder blades, rubbing gently. Feels nice. “We have to get in the dinghy now. We’ve a small window of time to make it to the island, and we’re pushing it. The storm is moving in even faster than predicted…”

“Course it is,” Greg groans, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Ugh. He glances up. Mycroft is looking at him with urgent sympathy, if such a thing is possible. Greg sucks in a breath, spits the last of the foul-tasting phlegm out of his mouth onto the deck, and grabs hold of Mycroft’s arm.

“Right, then. I’m ready. How do we do this?”

They do this, apparently, by clambering down a slippery ladder and letting themselves fall into a fucking polyethylene dinghy, which bloody well hurts. The dinghy has an outboard motor attached to it with a sodding nylon rope, of all things. Greg is just going to close his eyes and let Mycroft do his thing while praying to every known deity in the universe they don’t capsize on the way over. Mycroft yells something jovial-sounding in Greek at the boat captain and they are left behind, bobbing along about 100 yards from the island. They are the longest 100 yards of Greg’s life, up to and including the time he had to carry his king-sized headboard up five flights of stairs. His king-sized mahogany headboard, ta very much.

But they reach land safely, and Greg is so happy to put his feet on solid ground he thinks he could dance a jig. If he knew how, which he might, depending on how many pints he’s got in him.

Regardless, they are here now, immediately surrounded by twelve burly men bristling with testosterone and armed with very lethal guns. Great. This day just keep getting better and better. But, oh, wait, Mycroft’s got this, he’s going to, oh, yeah, oh, oh, yes…! There he goes, flinging off his oilskin, straightening his tie, looking down his nose at their piffling weapons.

“I believe you know who I am, gentlemen. I need to see Governor Farnsworth at once. If you would be so kind?”

Greg sails along in Mycroft’s wake as their armed guards become armed escorts, and then finally, finally, he is inside a veritable fortress. It has walls, lovely thick walls that look like they can withstand anything nature might throw at them, apocalyptic hurricanes included, thank Christ. The halls are well-lit. They must have some kick-ass generators in this place. He notices that Mycroft keeps checking his watch, but Greg can’t do the whole countdown thing. He’s pretty sure they have less than an hour left before it’s time for him to die. Mycroft is certainly wasting no time making his way to the Governor’s office. The guards are having a hard time keeping up with him.

If Governor Farnsworth thinks to play some sort of power game by making them cool their heels in his waiting room, he is disabused of that notion by the force of nature that is Mycroft Holmes. He powers past the secretary and into the Governor’s inner sanctum without so much as a by-your-leave. When this is all over, Greg is going to snog him for days and days, and they will explore this new power kink he’s just discovered.

“Mr. Holmes, you cannot just-” Governor Farnsworth begins, but Mycroft interrupts before he picks up any steam.

“I think you’ll find that I can, actually,” he says. “I’m here to see my sister on a matter of national security. I require the keys to her cell.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. Holmes,” Farnsworth stands and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s a large bloke, a bit over six feet tall, and muscular with it. Greg gives him an assessing look. He’s pretty sure he can take him down. He shifts up to the balls of his feet, but Mycroft places a finger on his wrist. Just one finger.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Detective Chief Inspector,” he says to Greg, with a slight smile.

“Governor Farnsworth, if you could see your way clear to giving the Prime Minister a ring? I believe she will assure you that it is more than possible. That it is, in fact, imperative that you grant us access to Eurus, for the good of both our Sovereign and our beloved country. Do you have her number?” Mycroft takes his phone out and scrolls through his list of contacts, but not very far. The Prime Minister is apparently on his speed dial, which Greg is sure the Governor notices. Mycroft stands ready, ever so politely, to provide the number should Governor Farnsworth need it.

The Governor gives Mycroft a look of such scorn that Greg is within a hair of ignoring the warning finger on his wrist and getting up in the man’s face. Who the bloody fuck does he think he is, looking at Mycroft like that?

Mycroft merely stares, expressionless, at the man, and waits.

Farnsworth loses the stare-down with ill grace and stalks back to his desk, where he jerks a satellite phone over to him. He has to look the number up on his rolodex, but Mycroft merely pokes his tongue in his cheek and waits, silently. He refuses to glance Greg’s way, but his thumb rests now on Greg’s ring, tapping it occasionally.

His call is answered promptly. “Prime Minister, I have Mycroft Holmes in my office…yes, ma’am, he appears to be, er, no worse for wear. I’m sure it was a harrowing journey, yes, ma’am. I-, what? No ma’am, I’m afraid I haven’t yet had the opportunity to do so. Prime Minister, I must say, this is highly irregul-, no, ma’am, I am not questioning your authority. I’m merely-. No ma’am. I assure you, it is not necessary for Her Royal Highness to-. At once, ma’am. Thank-” He is left holding the phone, two spots of color flaming high on his cheeks.

He pulls out a drawer, sifts through a box of keys, and hands one to Mycroft.

“My sincerest apologies, Mr. Holmes,” he says through gritted teeth. “Would you and the Detective Chief Inspector care for some tea?”

It’s all Greg can do not to burst out laughing.

“Perhaps another time,” Mycroft smiles in that fake-pleasant way of his that means he will have tea with you, you despicable creature, when hell freezes over, thanks ever so, and takes the key from the governor’s hand.

“Greg? We must make haste,” he says, and off they go toward the elevators. Or rather, to the door beside the elevators, behind which the stairs are located. Mycroft must not be confident enough in the prison’s generators to risk the elevators. Greg doesn’t blame him. They go down several flights of stairs at an increasingly rapid pace, and despite himself, Greg takes a look at his watch. It’s almost four pm.

Bugger.

“Not much further now,” Mycroft says, and takes his hand. Before he realises it, Greg is jogging along beside Mycroft, and then they are full out running. They come to a skidding halt before Eurus’ cell and Mycroft is fitting the key in the lock, cursing beneath his breath. Greg is panting, bent over at the waist to catch his breath, and he doesn’t see, at first, what has Mycroft cursing up such a blue streak.

Eurus lies in the middle of her cell as though she has been dropped there from a considerable height, her limbs twisted in unnatural angles. Greg starts toward her, but Mycroft reaches for him, holds him back.

“No, wait! Not until-” He stops, turns in a circle, frantically scanning the cell from top to bottom, side to side, and Greg gets it. This is a crime scene. Except. He stares at the body on the floor, edges just a bit closer.

“Mycroft! She’s breathing!”

She is. Shallowly, but she _is_ breathing.

Greg starts over towards her once more and then stops. Is stopped. Something presses against him, like a solid wall of…air? He can push a hand through it, but that’s about it. When he tries to force his shoulder through, it’s as though he is being gently pushed back out. As his hand goes through the resistance, cold air raises goosebumps on his skin. The ‘wall’ is about six inches deep. Greg walks around it, searching for a weakness, a way in, but he doesn’t find one. It’s a solid circle of something intangible, encasing Eurus in its middle.

So intent is Greg on this strange phenomenon that he hasn’t noticed Mycroft’s unnatural stillness until he almost bumps into him.

Mycroft is frozen in place where he first stood. He is staring down at Eurus, his face as gray-white as the cloth Eurus is holding clenched in her fingers. Is that dried blood? It looks like dried blood to Greg, who has seen his fair share of the stuff, to be honest. If he squints, he can make out something that looks like it might be DOA and 4:23 and…his initials? The rest is illegible. Possibly a date. Today’s date? But that’s not where Mycroft is staring. No, Greg looks again, follows his sight line, and gasps. Two feet away from Eurus, just a few inches from the ‘wall’ is Greg’s ring. Or Mycroft’s ring. But they’re both wearing their rings, so how…?

“Something’s gone wrong,” Mycroft says, but it’s not Mycroft’s voice, it’s a little girl’s voice, and it chants, birdlike, “three, three, three,” until Mycroft’s voice, dark and powerful, takes over and finishes, “Power of three,” and Greg is suddenly, quite literally, petrified, unable to move even his little finger. Tendrils of something alien, not of him, prowl about in his mind like smoke curling around and into his thoughts, swishing through his veins. A whisper of ‘promise maker’ escapes his mouth, and then he is released from whatever held him in thrall. He is surprised to find himself on his back, lying on the cold stone floor. Mycroft is knelt over him, tapping his cheek with gentle, urgent fingers. He’s Mycroft again, his eyes lucid, but they’re glistening with unshed tears. Greg doesn’t want Mycroft to cry. He reaches up to caress Mycroft’s cheek, but his hand swings wildly about, misses. He can’t make it pay attention. It isn’t minding him.

“Hurry,” Mycroft says, and Greg sits up slowly. He can’t focus. His mind is foggy, his thoughts are disjointed, mushy. He knows he needs to do something. Something important. It’s – he’s running out of time.

“Wha-?” The word won’t leave his throat.

“Hurry,” Mycroft says again, his voice fierce, commanding, so Greg hurries. He tries to stand up, but can’t. He leans against Mycroft’s legs. Tired. He’s so very tired. Mycroft. Oh, Mycroft. Has to tell him. Has to-, but there’s no time.

“Love,” he says, “Love you.”

Mycroft is dragging him over to the place where an unkempt, long-haired woman is lying in the middle of the floor. He knows her, he thinks. Funny name. All the Holmes' have funny names. Except Mycroft. Fine, strong name, that is. Means my home. My croft. He loves-, he loves Mycroft. Promised him that, didn’t he?

“Greg!” Mycroft is shouting, and Greg looks at him, tries to focus on what Mycroft is saying, but it’s so hard. Mycroft looks upset, desperate. His face is stern and scared and worried, all the things Greg doesn’t want him to be. Greg is…high? He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t remember taking anything. He wants…he needs Mycroft.

“Whasaneed?” he asks, and he means what can I do for you? Name it, and I’ll do it. What do you need from me? I’ll give it to you. Anything. Anything at all, Mycroft, anything of mine is yours. Anything you want, if I can get it for you, I will. Yours for the asking.

“Greg!” Mycroft shakes him a little, as Greg fades away like disappearing ink on parchment, but Mycroft needs him, needs him to…

“…get it. Get the ring, Greg! Can you reach it? Please, my darling, please, you must try to get the ring. I can’t-, I’m not allowed in.” Mycroft says, and Greg remembers now. Remembers seeing the ring, his and Mycroft’s ring, with the hands and the hidden, protected heart, by the invisible wall. He turns his head, and it seems to take a huge effort to do that, even more of an effort to reach his fingers forward, a little bit, an inch or two, through the wall, to the other side. They weigh ten pounds each, and he’s moving them through quicksand, but he has to, has to try. His fingers stretch and stretch until he feels it, brushes against the metal, just there. He pushes against the wall, panting with exertion, and he has it, has the ring beneath his fingertip.

“Good,” Mycroft says, only it’s hard to understand him, because he’s choking, it sounds like. “Good. Now, bring it through. Can you do that, my love? For me? Can you bring it back out? Please? Please, Greg…”

Greg can do anything Mycroft asks him to do. Anything. He always will. Forever. He pulls the ring out of the wall, and then the resistance is gone, suddenly, and he’s falling over, off balance. Mycroft grabs the ring from him, places it on his sister’s hand, puts his hand on top of hers, so the rings are touching, and then he’s pulling Greg’s hand over, too, and it’s like that game you play when you’re a child. The ring on his finger touches the ring on Mycroft’s finger, whose ring is touching the one on his sister’s hand, and then, and then a rush of power strikes him, so strong, so violent, he’s flung into nothingness.

He’s flying, up high over the storm, looking down into the eye. He’s cold. He’s being sucked through space. Stars and light and heat are twisting around him, and the light is coming toward him, or he’s going toward it. He’s floating, painless, adrift, alone. So terribly alone. Unbearably cold. He needs Mycroft, wants Mycroft. His soul calls out for him. My home. My heart. Mycroft. Over the distance, through space and time and stars, he hears Mycroft calling faintly back to him. Mycroft’s voice is the sound of love and home and sex and time and his soul yearns for it, pulling his body with it, towards Mycroft’s voice, crying out his name, despairingly, over and over.

Greg.

Greg.

_Greg!_

 

Day 3

_“Science is not only a disciple of reason, but, also, one of romance and passion.” Stephen Hawking_

The mobile chimes insistently, vibrations scooting it across the surface of the night stand in tiny increments.

Mycroft Holmes, buried beneath layers of bed covers and days of sleep deprivation, barely registers the sound on the periphery of his consciousness. He breathes deeply, filling his nose with the familiar beeswax and vanilla muskiness of home. A faint trace of citrus lingers in the bed. The chiming becomes muffled, distant.

Time slips past.

Hours later, he blinks awake in a bedroom filled with muted sunlight. He stretches his arms out, finds Greg’s side of the bed cold.

Greg!

Mycroft’s eyes fly open and he sits up, glancing wildly around the room. A sense of dread fills him as he reluctantly brings his gaze to the back of the bedroom door. Greg’s robe is hanging there, like always.

No.

Filled with sudden, gut-wrenching despair, Mycroft raises his fists to his mouth, holding back a tortured whimper, and flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He can’t go through it again. He simply can’t. He’ll go mad. They’ll have to drag his body out of the Thames. He’d hoped, yesterday, he’d thought surely, finally…

They must have been too late, after all.

It’s not storming outside. The house is quiet. He’s just too tired to think right now. His skull aches. He can’t hold his eyes open. A pressure is building behind them, hot and itching.

It’s over.

He won’t get another chance.

He failed.

In the quiet of their bed, he closes his eyes and drifts. The sound of the telly is muted, audible only when the advertisements play. Mycroft turns over, his back to the door. Any second now, someone- Anthea, or perhaps Sherlock- will knock at the door, and he will have to face them. Face reality. He would prefer not to do so. He would prefer to stay in this bed, pull the covers over his head and stave off reality for at least another day. He won’t, of course. He has duties. Obligations. The world and its problems will not end because Greg Lestrade has died.

He doesn’t hear a knock, doesn’t hear the door swing open on its well-oiled hinges. He does hear the rattle of the cup and saucer as they’re placed on the Queen Anne bedside table, and he does feel the weight of a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly. He doesn’t respond. He needs a moment.

Suddenly, the covers are jerked back, and he curls into a ball like a hedgehog protecting its stomach, only he’s just trying to cover his naked bits, shocked that someone would…

“Oi,” Greg says, “You planning to lie about all day starkers, you lazy sod? And here’s me, making your tea and preparing you a nice hot breakfast! Least you could do is- oof!”

Mycroft launches himself at the grinning, bare-chested apparition stood beside the bed, who turns out not to be an apparition at all, but made of solid muscle and bone and beating heart, alive, alive, _alive_. Greg catches him and holds onto him like he will never let him go. Mycroft’s legs find purchase around his waist, and he clings around his shoulders and neck like the koala he’s been likened to. He says, “Greg, Greg, my love, oh, oh, sweet Christ, you’re alive,” over and over. Greg is laughing and turning them in exuberant circles, his arms crossed around Mycroft’s back, until he stumbles and they fall onto the bed together. And still, Mycroft doesn’t let go. He wants to worm himself under Greg’s skin, take up residence there. A sudden thought strikes him.

“Wait,” he says, pulling back a scant few centimeters. Greg’s hands still where they are, one on his arse and the other on the back of his neck.

“What?” Greg asks, nudging his nose along the dip in Mycroft’s collarbone and licking where the bone juts up.

“What time is it?”

Greg closes the distance between them again. His chest and shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. “Wrong question,” he says, and the hand on Mycroft’s arse squeezes.

“What’s the right one?” Mycroft is holding his breath, nerves scritching in his chest, because what if-?

“What _day_ is it?” Greg’s lips curve into a smile against Mycroft’s skin.

Mycroft rolls them over so that he’s on top. He grabs Greg’s roving hands, interlacing their fingers and bringing them up beside Greg’s head. “Fine, then. What day is it?”

Greg squeezes his fingers, draws them out to the side so Mycroft loses his balance and falls face first onto Greg’s chest. He turns his head and listens to the reassuringly strong, regular heartbeat beneath his ear.

“It’s tomorrow, love. You did it, you lovely, brave, bossy man, you. It’s Tuesday, and we’re both here, the sky is blue, the sun is shining, and oh, by the way, I’ve called us in sick for the day. Food poisoning from that kebab place near Baker Street.”

“You-?“

“Yeah. Me. I did that. Gonna spank me?” Greg says, waggling his eyebrows up and down. He sounds almost hopeful, and Mycroft stores that data point away for later. Much later. Right now, Greg has spread his legs and made a place for Mycroft between them. He’s running his fingertips lightly up and down Mycroft’s spine and when Mycroft presses his body down against him, he realises Greg is wearing pants. Mycroft’s pants. They’re a little snug, and when he looks down, he can clearly see the outline of Greg’s cock, thick and growing longer even as he looks at it. There’s a burst of saliva on Mycroft’s tongue. He wants to taste him, wants to swallow him whole and take his come down his throat, and he wants it right now, this very instant.

“Get these off,” he says, impatiently reaching for the waistband and pulling them down and over Greg’s erection. Greg shimmies himself out of them, Mycroft helping along the way, ending up with his face between Greg’s thighs, which is a wonderful place to be, in his considered opinion. He would stay there forever, nose pressed against Greg’s balls, breathing in his clean, musky scent, if given the choice. Although Greg seems to be of a different mind, because he’s pulling at Mycroft’s shoulders, trying to tug him back up.

“Greg,” Mycroft tries not to whine as he slides up Greg’s warm body, he really does, but he wants Greg’s cock in his mouth. Now.

“Shh, shh, just- can we-?” Greg reaches up and puts his hands on Mycroft’s face, pulls him in, and plunders his mouth. He curls his tongue around Mycroft’s, and moans and bites his lower lip, then licks at it. It seems Greg needs Mycroft’s mouth and Mycroft is delighted to give it to him, to let him have his fill. He’s writhing beneath Mycroft, holding his head in place, until he gasps and pulls back at last, a dazed look on his face. His lips are swollen and red, shiny with their combined spit, lovely.

“Okay. I’m all yours now, love,” he says, and puts his hands behind his head, elbows out, mouth parted, tongue licking at the moisture on his lips. Greg Lestrade, an all-you-can-eat Smorgasbord for Mycroft’s dining pleasure. He’s grinning, making his pecs dance a little. His cock is deep red, lying engorged against his belly, fluid pooling at the slit, and Mycroft wants, he needs, he _loves_ so intensely in that moment, so very deeply, he isn’t sure if his heart can stand it. If he were a cartoon character, his heart would be beating in and out of his chest and little birds and hearts would be fluttering round his head. He’s so lucky, so very blessed.

He knows that he made a deal with the devil in order to have Greg here with him today and tomorrow, forever more, alive and well and laughing. He must have. In this moment, he can’t be arsed to care.

Greg’s playful smile is fading, and he’s looking at Mycroft, eyes soft, full of understanding, as if he can see into his very soul. Maybe he can. Mycroft is almost certain it’s just a mirror of Greg’s own soul. He remembers, now, remembers how Greg held on in Eurus’ cell, past the time of his official death, held on to life by his fingertips, strained and pale, barely breathing, because Mycroft begged him to, because caring was the only advantage they’d had in that moment.

Mycroft can say the words, needs to say them, they’re burning in his throat, but he’s a bit choked up right now, remembering how close they’d come to losing each other. Instead, he uses his fingers and his mouth, his whole body, to press all his love into Greg’s skin. He cups his palms and runs them over Greg’s chest, flicks little darts of admiration at his nipples. He adores them with his tongue. He bites and sucks his passion into a bruise on the tender skin of Greg’s hip. He strokes the inside of Greg’s thighs with the stubble on his cheeks, soothes kisses and affection onto the red marks. He takes hold of Greg’s cock with fingers trembling with devotion and guides it to his mouth, tongues his slit, licks all around the head. The flavor explodes on his tongue, and it hits him like a drug, takes him high.

Greg moans and shifts and swears. He is not one to lie still and be ‘taken’.

He says, “Mycroft, I-, oh, God, yes. Mmm, your mouth, so good, ‘s so good, love…” until he loses his words, too. His hands are on the back of Mycroft’s neck, just holding him, playing with his hair. His thumb slides over Mycroft’s ear. Mycroft pauses, looks up the line of Greg’s body to see him leaning up, muscles in his abdomen straining, his bottom lip held fast by his teeth, eyes wide and hungry. Mycroft smiles up at him and closes his mouth over the head of Greg’s cock, sucking and swallowing around it. He takes as much as he can down his throat, but comes back off to lick and suck the length up one side and down the other, uses the flat of his tongue to rub against the tight knot of nerves. He hums, and Greg’s fingers clench, then release in his hair. His hand slick with saliva and pre-come, Mycroft strokes him from root to slit and back down. He laps at the soft skin over Greg’s sac, mouths at his full, tight balls. He glances up again. Greg’s head is arched back, his mouth open, gasping for breath.

“Do you want…?” Mycroft’s voice is hoarse, raspy.

“Oh, God, yeah, Mycroft, please, please, in-, in me, get in me, fuck me,” Greg answers. He stretches up and over, tosses Mycroft the lube, spreads his legs even wider, and while that’s not what Mycroft had meant, at all, he is more than willing to accommodate Greg’s wishes. To be inside Greg’s body, like he’d wanted earlier. Perfect. He wants to take his time, open him up slowly, fuck him until nothing exists but the two of them, connected body and soul.

Sentiment. Not only has Mycroft embraced it, he’s wined and dined it, invited it inside for a nightcap and shagged it to pieces. He regrets nothing.

“C’mon, Mycroft, I’m ready. That’s good, that’s enough,” Greg pleads, “God, ju-, just get _in_ me, please, please…” and Mycroft pushes Greg’s knees to his chest and slicks his own cock up. The sight of Greg, panting and wrecked beneath him, his eyes fierce, cheeks flushed, has Mycroft too close to the edge already. He grabs the base of his cock and squeezes, hard, grunting with the effort to hold back.

“C’mon,” Greg says, voice lowered to a husky growl, “come inside me, now...”

He reaches down, pulls his knees up even higher. Mycroft pushes in, a long, slow slide into Greg’s body, into heat and pressure and welcome. He can’t, cannot feel anything but that, but Greg, under him, around him. Mycroft holds himself up with his arms on either side of Greg’s ribs. Greg strains up to reach his mouth, gasping, and Mycroft gives it to him, lets him suck on his tongue, his lips, open and wet and sloppy before he buries his head between Greg’s shoulder and neck. He’s driving his cock into Greg without finesse, harder and harder, deeper, so deep. Inside. Inside Greg’s body, his heart, his soul is where he needs to be, the only safe place for him. Mycroft’s lungs will burst soon, his heart will hammer through his chest, his skin will go up in flames if he doesn’t- his arms give out, and he reaches under, grabs onto Greg’s shoulders and pulls himself even closer, deeper, in and in and in.

Beneath him, Greg moans and pants, says, “Mycroft, you-, yes, fuck me, don’t stop, don’t you ever-, love you, love you, ah, fuck me, you _sweetheart,_ you,” and comes, untouched, breath stuttering out straight into Mycroft’s ear. He smells Greg’s come before he feels it on his stomach, and he can’t, he can’t, he needs… Greg lets his knees drop, but he reaches down and pulls Mycroft even closer, lifts his hips, and bites down on Mycroft’s ear. Mycroft lets go with a harsh, guttural groan and spends himself deep inside Greg, pulse after pulse wracking him. As he shakes in the aftermath, Greg wraps himself around him, arms and legs and heart and soul. He nibbles and licks at Mycroft’s neck, his shoulder, anywhere his mouth can reach.

“I don’t think I can even _feel_ my toes,” Greg says after a while, and Mycroft huffs a laugh into the crook of his neck.

“I am incapable of moving from this spot right now,” he says, licking the sweat from Greg’s shoulder. “I’ll massage them for you later. Promise.”

“Mm, you do that,” Greg’s words are slurring, his arms releasing their hold slightly. Mycroft lies on top of him, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually return to normal. Steady, slow. There.

***

Greg wakes up in stages. He’s warm. He yawns, flexes his muscles a bit, takes stock of his body. His ass feels stretched, achy, a little wet. The rest of him is still enjoying the thoroughly shagged-out state of bliss he went to sleep with. He could do with a shower, maybe. But he’s not going to move until the sleeping man nestled against him wakes up. Mycroft deserves to sleep all day long, if that’s what he wants to do. Greg spares a thought for the bacon and eggs he’d cooked earlier. Ah, well. More where that came from. He is thirsty, though. Not sure if he can reach the tea without jostling Mycroft, so he just swallows dryly and waits. He thinks back over yesterday, the things Mycroft told him, about how many times he’d died, how Mycroft had grieved and grieved and grieved again. He’d left out a lot of the details, but Greg knows they will haunt Mycroft for a long time. He’ll be a little more clingy for a while. Which, in Mycroftian terms, means he may sit closer to Greg on the sofa, thigh against thigh. Might sleep half on top of him, like he is now, arms and legs draped over him. Might fuck him a little more often, instead of the other way round.

Greg can live with all of that.

He shifts just a little, until he has Mycroft’s left hand clasped in his. He runs his finger over the ring, thinks about the decision Mycroft must have been the one to make at some point, early on, the decision that set everything in motion. He’s…humbled by that thought.

He knows, without a shadow of doubt in his soul, that if the roles were reversed, if he was ever offered the chance to snatch Mycroft’s life from the greedy arms of death, he’d take it. Wouldn’t even have to stop and think about it. Damn the consequences, full speed ahead. But that’s him, and the way he feels about Mycroft. Knowing he’s loved that much, that strongly, in return, is-, well, the only word that comes to mind is humbling. Well, yeah, a few more words come to mind, actually, if he’s thinking about it. Unexpected. Reassuring. Arousing.

He dozes off, dreams about Mycroft bossing Russian generals and prison Governors around, all haughty, precise diction, expecting to be obeyed. Or else. Greg’s not surprised that he wakes up half-hard. He is surprised, just a bit, to feel Mycroft hard as well, his cock already slick with lube and snugged up between Greg’s thighs. Mycroft kisses and licks the nape of his neck, the slope of his shoulders, that tender spot under his ear. Greg shifts, pulls one leg up to give Mycroft more access, a better angle. Perfect. This time it’s slow and easy, Mycroft slipping into his body like heated silk. He turns his head and Mycroft kisses him, soft tongue and gentle nibbles. Greg slicks his cock with lube and Mycroft’s hand joins his, their rings gleaming next to each other, stroking him just the way he likes it, tight and fast with a little twist at the head. Greg floats in a haze of love and desire and Mycroft. He lets the tension build and taper off, then build again, so when he finally comes it leaves him shaking, wrung out, sated. Mycroft follows soon after, breathing I love yous into Greg’s ear. This time, afterwards, they have a shower, drink some tea, but the mid-afternoon sun finds them spooned under the covers once more, snoring softly.

Greg doesn’t mind being the little spoon for a change.

***

Mycroft has been avoiding work all afternoon, content to just relax and recoup. After they’ve had a light supper of fruit and cheese and wine, Greg curls up on the sofa with a book, the latest by Dean Koontz. Mycroft brings his laptop over to sit beside him. He won’t open any classified documents, but he can answer emails and set a few plans in motion. Nothing too complicated.

An hour later, he’s finished. He seems to have drifted closer to Greg so that their thighs are touching. Greg’s arm is slung around the back of the couch, his fingers on the back of Mycroft’s neck.

“So, I was wondering,” Greg says. He hesitates, looking at Mycroft’s laptop.

Thank God. Mycroft’s been wondering, too, but didn’t know how to broach the subject. He hovers the mouse over the CCTV program and waits.

“Yeah. That.” Greg nods.

“I’m afraid I never found out the address of the accident, the first day…”

Greg pulls him in a little closer, so Mycroft can rest his head on Greg’s shoulder. He gives him an address on Albert Street. They know the exact time, of course. Still, it’s surreal, watching the footage together. Mycroft zooms in as Greg’s car passes the intersection, then widens the view, backs up a few seconds and focuses on the pub. This time, a few seconds before Greg’s car passes in front of the pub, they see it happen. It only takes a split-second to make the difference between death and life. A man comes out of the pub, weaving unsteadily on his feet. A woman brushes past him, bumps his shoulder and keeps going. He grabs onto a rail. Greg’s car passes by. The man is joined by a mate who cajoles him back into the bar.

Mycroft backs up a few seconds again, zooms in on the woman. She’s facing the other way, but her hair is long and stringy, and she is wearing white hospital scrubs. Three steps after she bumps into the man from the pub, she disappears into thin air. She is there, and then she isn’t.

“Well, fuck me right up,” Greg says, his hand clenching tightly on Mycroft’s thigh.

Mycroft agrees. He hesitates, then pulls up today’s security footage from Eurus’ cell. Greg politely closes his eyes while Mycroft enters a series of pass codes. It takes a minute to load.

She lies sleeping peacefully in her cot, hands folded over her chest. He fast forwards, searching for movement. She does not stir when her food is delivered through the opening. She shows no sign of awareness when an attendant comes in, heavily guarded, takes her vital signs, and leaves.

She sleeps, at peace.

Beside him, Greg says, “So, she’s…gone, then?”

Mycroft sighs and exits the program, closes the laptop and places it aside.

“Yes, I believe so.” He leans his head against Greg’s shoulder once more, allows himself to be cuddled in the arms of the man he loves more than anything. Given a choice, and Mycroft can only imagine the way it’d happened, based on the facts available to him and his lack of memory surrounding those facts, he’d chosen to save Greg. Knowing the inherent dangers in doing so, weighing the possible disastrous outcomes, he’d found every risk acceptable, and chosen Greg.

He would not hesitate to make the same decision again.

They sit there in silence, the warmth of their home settling around them. The fire Greg had built earlier snaps and crackles as the logs shift, sending sparks up the flue. It’s dark outside, but neither of them turns on a lamp. They’re safe, and together, and the world narrows to just the two of them, holding hands on the sofa.

“So,” Greg says, breath soft against Mycroft’s temple. “Something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

Mycroft turns his head so he can meet Greg’s eyes. The look of utter adoration on his face steals Mycroft’s breath.

“Yes,” he murmurs.

“But I haven’t asked it yet.”

“I don’t care. My answer will always be yes.”

Greg laughs, his eyes shining, crinkles deep at the corners. “Ah, that’s wonderful. So we’ll be off to the animal shelter in the morning, then?”

“The what?”

“Yeah. I’ve been wanting to ask you about getting a pet. Found one I think-“

“Bite your tongue, Greg Lestrade. That is not what you were going to ask me,” Mycroft says, poking a finger in Greg’s ribs, as sure of himself as he’s ever been.

But Greg’s having too much fun now. He’s got his phone out, scrolling down his favorites list until he lands on the Mayhew Animal Home, where he clicks and scrolls until he finds the ugliest, saddest-looking hound dog mix Mycroft has ever seen and taps the screen.

“Her name’s Maggie,” Greg says, voice soft with yearning, and Mycroft makes the mistake of taking a closer look. Oh, dear. The poor thing.

“Yes, fine, we’ll-” He’s cut off by an exuberant kiss, a quick hug, but then Greg draws back, and his grin morphs into a wonderfully besotted smile, pupils dilating to darken already dark eyes. He scrubs a hand through his hair, wets his lips. Mycroft’s heart leaps into his throat, his soul starts doing somersaults of glee as he waits for Greg to find the proper words this time.

Greg frames Mycroft’s face in his hands, looks him straight in the eyes, and says, “Mycroft Holmes, I love you. You are my life, my heart, my home. Will you marry me?”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft replies, because what other answer is there, really?

He gives himself up to Greg’s kiss, to this man, loved and in love.

Day 1, Part 2

_"If he loved like that, anchored himself to one person, he would let the world burn to save them. There would be no noble self-sacrifice, no agreement to face the worst, no matter the danger. There would be calculated losses and personal safety bought at too high a price." From Habits of a Lifetime by out_there_

“Sweet Christ in heaven, Eurus,” Mycroft says, in a voice that is terrible and calm and powerful, “What have you _done_?”

Eurus draws back. Even though she knows he is caught in her web, the insane _depth_ of his emotions frightens her. She remembers her experiments, how quickly he chose to sacrifice himself for Sherlock’s sake. Unexpected. Unreliable. Unpredictable.

Yet, he remains her only hope.

She lifts her chin defiantly.

“I have done nothing. I have merely observed.”

He crushes the note into a ball within his fist. She watches him, impassive, as emotions flit across his face, each one a tell, each one a story within a story. Surprise, disbelief, anger, hatred, fear. He is afraid most of all, not of her, but of the truth.

It is 4:25. It happened two minutes ago. Soon, he will doubt the truth and fear _her_.

“Observed?” It is not a question. It is a mockery. It is an insult.

“Yes,” she answers simply. “Have you never wondered, Mycroft, why our dear Uncle Rudy chose this particular site for his experimental prison? Are you at all familiar with ley lines? Quantum gravitational force?” She allows her voice to drip with contempt, because it is what she feels for him. For everyone.

“Why he- what?” He is taken aback, but she sees his mind grasp hold of the question, examine it, pick it apart into all possible permutations. He really does have an interesting brain, facile, analytical, quite similar to hers, in many ways.

“You begin to see,” she says. Perhaps a demonstration is required. She anticipates that she has less than two minutes before they come for him.

Eurus steps on the crack in the floor. She only visits a few minutes in the future this time. She goes to her favorite place in the entire world, the Antipodes Islands. The penguins are shy today. Precisely one minute and forty-five seconds later, she returns to her time, to the cell, to Mycroft.

He is pale, beautiful in his anger. Why has she never noticed this before?

He doesn’t ask her where she went. He is putting the pieces together, faster than she thought possible. She wonders if he will ask the right question. He is caught in her web, yes, but he is more observant than she has given him credit for and therefore more dangerous.

The caged lion morphs into an insect with golden wings and a black body.

He is a predator.

There is a commotion at the door, and she steps back. Mycroft does not take his eyes away from her. He holds out one hand to the side, snaps his fingers, and the armed guard places a satellite phone in it.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he says, and listens. He stares at her, fear and hatred at war in his face.

Eurus waits.

Mycroft ends the call without speaking. His fingers whiten as he clenches the phone in his grip. She wonders if it is possible to shatter a physical object with the force of one’s grief. Interesting. And yet, his hand is steady as he gives the phone back to the guard. He says, “Inform Governor Farnsworth I need to see him immediately.”

The guard says, “Sir, yes, sir!” and backs out of the room.

Mycroft’s breathing has quickened, as has his heartbeat. She sees no sign of sweat on his skin. Eurus observes the outward signs of his inward rage and is reluctantly impressed.

He stares at her, unblinking. Behind his eyes, inside his brain, synapses are firing, conclusions are being drawn, possibilities unwind like glittering spools of thread. She wishes she could cut into his brain, watch it bleed out its secrets.

Finally, finally, finally, he asks, “What do you want?”

It’s the right question.

“Out,” she says.

The negotiations begin.

“Impossible,” he says.

“No, it isn’t,” she replies.

“Impossible _here_ ,” he says.

Oh. He understands. He is very quick. Eurus steps forward, entranced.

“How much time will you need?”

“A split second.”

“And how do you propose to gain that – ah.” If she could see inside that magnificent mind, would she be able to identify which particular synapse provided him with the space-time equation for that answer? At his next question, she thinks it might be possible.

“You will require a physical anchor, then?”

“Yes.”

“And a point of triangulation?”

Her knees buckle. She is close to swooning. His _mind_.

“Yes.”

He touches his ring, taps a long, lean finger against the tiny platinum hands. She nods, takes another step forward. So close. So very close.

“What is it you really want?” he asks again, and she shivers, thrilled.

“Redemption.”

“How certain are you?”

She pauses. Will he know if she lies? He will. Obviously, he will.

“Eighty percent,” she lies anyway.

“I’ll have the truth, now, if you please.”

Damn him. He won’t take the risk if he knows the truth.

He steps forward. His hand goes to his pocket. Venom pools in the back of her throat. She will paralyse him, she will consume him. He takes another step forward. He is not afraid of her.

He is a spider wasp now, black and gold and deadly.

“Fifty percent,” she lies.

“The _truth_ ,” he demands. She hates him, and she fears him in equal measure.

She wants out, out, out! He is her only hope, but he will not risk the world for such a slim margin of error.

Eurus hangs her head and closes her eyes, furious. He is a spider wasp, and she is doomed.

“Thirty percent,” she says, truthfully.

He does not hesitate.

“Done,” he says.

Her eyes fly open.

He takes his hand out of his pocket, holding the scrap of cloth where she has written the future, now the past. The ring is missing from his finger.

They wait.

The Governor is stupid, and bellicose, and her brother cuts him down to size in less than a minute. It is quite entertaining to watch.

He enters her cell as if he owns it. It’s quite possible he does, actually.

She fastens her gaze on the ball of cotton material, avid, yearning. She drools. She almost forgets he is a spider wasp, until he speaks.

“There is, of course, but one condition.”

“No,” she says.

“I’m afraid it is non-negotiable,” he says, smiling tightly.

“No,” she repeats.

“Very well,” he says, and turns his back on her. He does not go to the door. No, he is much, much too clever for that. He stops an inch away from the tiny crack in the floor. He holds the cloth over it.

“No,” she wails. Anything, she will give him anything he demands, anything at all, but he must not, he must not, he must not--

“I shall need the key,” he says. “Just in case.”

Eurus stares at the cloth, and presses her lips together.

“The key, Eurus,” he says, and loosens his grip on the cloth.

“Threethreethree, power of three,” she screams, and he pulls his hand back.

Eurus sinks to the floor, weeping. She hates him. She loves him. She hopes to be him, in her new world.

“Goodbye, sister mine,” he says softly.

The door closes, and she opens her eyes. The cloth lies on the stone floor beside her. She grabs it, presses it to her bosom, marking her skin with the outline of the ring nestled within it. She has everything she needs now.

Web weaver.

Time keeper.

Promise maker.

She crawls toward the crack in the floor.

Time slips.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've enjoyed the story!
> 
> I have so many people to thank for their help with this fic! It took a village! If I were Mycroft, this would be in nested bullet format, I'm sure. But I'm not, so...
> 
> Thanks so much to: 
> 
> Melagan for being wonderful in general, introducing me to this pairing in particular (you created such a monster!) and also for cheerleading and help with plotting and not complaining at all about numerous text updates and phone calls as I talked and talked and talked about the story.
> 
> Trillingstar for late-night plot wrangling (but WHY doesn't he remember???) and enthusiasm and clever ideas (I had to cut the scene with the building curling up at the corner, I'm afraid). 
> 
> lilynevin on Tumblr for reading the story in its first-draft stages, totally unedited, and encouraging me to finish it. 
> 
> SGA_Madison for taking the time out of her already hectic schedule to read and comment on a story about a pairing she wasn't familiar with. Your expertise was much appreciated!
> 
> neeve_brody for Brit-picking and beta work and tons of help with passive voice and deep POV. It's a much better story because of her help.
> 
> out_there for beta work, helpful advice about POV changes, characterization, sentence structure, and a shared love for OTP Mystrade. Again, this is a better story because of her insight. This story came about because I read her Habits of a Lifetime and wondered, what would Mycroft do, if faced with the choice between saving Greg or ending the world?
> 
> It goes without saying that if any errors remain, they're of my own making, because I can't resist poking and prodding at the words.
> 
> I'm amezzlove on Tumblr, if anyone wants to visit and share the Mystrade love!


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